I think I might actually die in this arena.

Not in a dramatic, tragic way. No, I'm not that lucky. If I do die here, it'll be because I slipped on spilled soda, hit my head on the cash register, and got trampled by a bunch of drunk college students who don't even notice my lifeless body on the floor.

This is my life now.

When I first got this job, I told myself it wouldn't be so bad. Flexible hours, decent pay, and a free meal every shift. Seemed like a good deal. What I didn't account for was the fact that working at the Baymount University arena concession stand would be something straight out of a survival game.

It's game night, and the arena is packed.

Everywhere I look, it's a blur of navy blue and silver jerseys, students yelling and laughing, the deafening hum of a thousand conversations mixing with the sharp screech of skates on ice. The air smells like buttery popcorn, fried food, and something aggressively artificial that I think is supposed to be cheese.

And here I am—sweating behind the counter, handing out nachos to impatient fans while trying to make sure I don't burn my fingers on the pretzel warmer.

"Yo, sweetheart, how much for a beer?"

I don't even look up as I tap at the register. "If you call me sweetheart again, it's twenty bucks. If you don't, it's still ten bucks."

The guy laughs like I just flirted with him, which—gross. He hands over his money, and I move on to the next customer, already exhausted even though I have another two hours left in my shift.

I push a stray curl out of my face, my hair already frizzing from the heat behind the counter. I've made the mistake of tying it back before, but with my curls, that just means I end up looking like a frazzled poodle by the end of the night. So now, I let it hang loose, even though it always, always gets in the way.

"Hey, do you have vegan options?"

I blink at the girl standing in front of me. She's in full Venom fan gear, navy blue face paint and all, but she's asking a question like this place is a Whole Foods and not a glorified grease trap.

"Uh," I glance at the menu. "We have...fries?"

"Are they fried in vegetable oil?"

I pause. "...Honestly? I have no idea."

She stares at me for a second, then sighs dramatically. "Fine. I'll just take a pretzel."

I hand it over, still not entirely sure if pretzels count as vegan, but I figure that's not my problem.

The next customer is already leaning over the counter, and I instinctively shrink back a little, my stomach twisting the way it always does when people get too close.

I hate that part of this job.

I don't mind being around people, but I hate being the center of attention.

And standing behind this counter, with a line of people staring directly at me, waiting for me to talk, answer, do something, makes my skin crawl sometimes.

It's not that I don't know what to say—it's that my brain freezes up, like it's desperately flipping through an imaginary social interaction guidebook and coming up empty.

"Uh—hi, what can I get you?" I finally manage, hoping I don't sound as awkward as I feel.

The guy just shouts his order over the crowd, not even acknowledging me, which honestly? Perfect. The less talking I have to do, the better.

I keep my head down as I grab his food, my hands moving on autopilot at this point. My fingers are covered in salt and butter, my black work shirt already stained with something I don't remember spilling, and my feet ache from standing too long.

I tell myself it's fine.

It's just another shift.

Another game night.

Just a few more hours, and I can go home, shower, and pretend this night never happened.

I just have to survive until then.

The line never seems to end, even after the game is over.

Every time I think I'm catching up, more people show up, waving cash, shouting orders over each other, their faces flushed from screaming at the game. The arena is alive, buzzing with adrenaline, loud and chaotic in a way that makes me feel small even though I'm not out there in the stands.

I'm just the person handing over their food, hoping they don't notice the slight tremble in my hands when the crowd gets too overwhelming.

"Two popcorns, one large soda, and—uh—what's the least disgusting thing you have?"

I pause. That voice.

Low. Flat. Bored.

I glance up, and it's him.

Luka Mikhaylov.

I don't need to be a hockey fan to know who he is. Everyone knows who he is.

If hockey players had royalty, he'd be the cold, brooding prince everyone's obsessed with but too scared to talk to.

He's standing there, fully in uniform, pads still on, jersey half off, hanging loose over his gear like he couldn't be bothered to take it off properly. His hair is damp and his blue eyes—sharp, intimidating—flick over the menu like it personally offended him.

I immediately look away.

I don't do well with eye contact on a normal day, and I definitely don't do well with eye contact from someone like him.

"Uh—" I scramble to press the right buttons on the register, my fingers fumbling because, for some reason, my brain decides now is the perfect time to forget how numbers work. "Popcorn. Soda. And... did you want the pretzel or...?"

Luka looks unimpressed. "I said the least disgusting thing."

I blink.

Did he just—?

I glance at the fryer behind me, where the mozzarella sticks are floating in oil that should've been changed two hours ago, and back at him.

"Yeah, uh... I don't think that thing exists here."

His lips press together, not quite a smirk, not quite a frown, just that same blank expression I've seen him give reporters on TV when they ask him dumb questions.

He doesn't say anything.

I don't either.

The silence stretches.

I feel my face start to heat up because I know he's waiting for me to figure out his order, and my brain is short-circuiting under the pressure of just existing in front of him.

I swallow, trying to pull myself together. "Uh. Okay. Just the popcorn and soda, then?"

He nods once. Sharp. Efficient.

I move way too fast, grabbing a tub of popcorn, nearly dropping it in my rush to get this interaction over with. I turn back to the soda machine, my hands shaking slightly as I fill his cup with ice.

It's fine. I just have to get through this and—

"Your nametag's upside down."

I freeze.

I glance down.

Oh my God.

He's right.

The nametag pinned to my work shirt is completely flipped over, so instead of reading my name, it just says AIFOS in faded print.

Kill me. Kill me now.

I don't look at him. Instead, I pretend I didn't hear anything, focusing way too hard on getting the stupid lid onto his soda.

But Luka? He doesn't drop it.

"You gonna fix it?"

His tone is still flat, unreadable, but there's something else there, something almost amused.

I do not want to give him the satisfaction.

"It's fine," I mumble, shoving the drink onto the counter a little too forcefully. "Here."

He doesn't take it right away.

I make the mistake of glancing up again, and he's still looking at me, his gaze steady in a way that makes me want to shrink into the floor.

"You're sure?"

I nod quickly. Too quickly. "Yep. Totally. Not a problem."

Another beat of silence.

Then, finally—finally—Luka grabs his food, doesn't say thank you (of course he doesn't), and turns away.

And that should be the end of it.

Except, as he walks off, I hear him mutter—just loud enough for me to catch—

"Enjoy your shift, Aifos."

I want to scream.

By the time my shift finally ends, my body feels like it's on the verge of collapse.

The crowd is still loud, still celebrating Venom's win, but I'm officially done pretending to care. The second the next shift takes over, I peel off my apron, wipe my hands on a napkin that's already covered in salt and grease, and step away from the counter like it personally wronged me.

The arena is still buzzing with post-game energy, students lingering in the stands, the loudspeakers blasting some victory song, but I barely notice any of it. The only thing I can focus on is the deep, aching throb in my feet from standing for way too long and the desperate need to get out of this building.

The employee hallway behind the concession stand is dimly lit, lined with metal shelves stacked with extra supplies—rows of soda syrup boxes, bags of frozen fries, and plastic containers of nacho cheese that look deeply suspicious. The fluorescent lighting flickers slightly, casting weird shadows over the stained tile floors.

I push open the back exit door, stepping into the crisp September night air. It's cold enough that I instantly shiver, but I don't care. It feels amazing after spending hours trapped in the overheated concession stand. The air smells fresher out here, sharp with autumn chill, mixed with the faint, lingering scent of fryer oil clinging to my clothes.

I walk down the short, concrete alleyway behind the arena, my sneakers making dull scuffing sounds against the pavement, and finally reach the main sidewalk where I see Julian waiting for me.

Julian—aka the only person keeping me sane in this godforsaken school—is sitting on a bench just outside the arena entrance, his camera bag slung over one shoulder. He's scrolling through his phone, his brows slightly furrowed, the glow from the screen making his features look sharper in the dim streetlights. His curly hair is a disorganized mess, like he's been running his hands through it all night, and he's wearing his usual hoodie and ripped jeans combo, looking effortlessly put together in a way that makes me vaguely resent him.

I envy him, honestly. While I spent the last few hours drowning in grease and noise, Julian probably got to sit comfortably in the press box, taking photos of the game for the student newspaper. His job is actually relevant to his journalism major. Mine? Not so much.

When he hears me approach, he glances up.

"You look awful."

I drop onto the bench next to him with a dramatic groan, slumping against the backrest. "Wow, thanks. That's exactly what I needed to hear."

He smirks. "You're welcome."

I don't even have the energy to argue. I tilt my head back, staring up at the sky, where the lights from the arena cast a faint glow over the dark night. The stars are barely visible, but I can still make out a few, tiny specks of silver between the clouds.

Julian nudges me with his elbow. "Rough shift?"

I snort. "When is it not?"

Fair point. He doesn't even ask for details—he already knows what my nights usually look like.

After a moment, he shifts, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "So, did you see him?"

I blink, turning my head to squint at him. "See who?"

Julian rolls his eyes like I'm an idiot. "Mikhaylov."

My stomach tightens slightly at the name. Not because I care. Just... because.

I force a shrug, looking away again. "Yeah. He came to the stand."

Julian raises an eyebrow, clearly waiting for more. I exhale.

"He ordered food. I gave it to him. The end."

Julian frowns. "That's it?"

"What else was supposed to happen?" I ask dryly. "Were we supposed to have a deep, meaningful conversation about our hopes and dreams over a tray of pretzels?"

Julian snickers. "I mean, it's not every day you get to interact with the Luka Mikhaylov."

I make a face. "You say that like he's some kind of god."

Julian just shrugs. "To some people, he kinda is."

I roll my eyes, but I know he's right. Luka Mikhaylov isn't just some hockey player—he's the hockey player. The one everyone talks about, watches, worships. And yeah, I've never cared about hockey, but even I can admit there's something different about him. Something intimidating, untouchable.

Not that it matters. He's just a guy. A guy who probably doesn't even remember I exist.

AIFOS.

I cringe at the memory, heat rising to my face. I reach up, fixing my stupid name tag correctly this time, feeling the familiar wave of embarrassment creep up my spine.

Julian notices. "Okay, what happened? You're making a face."

I shake my head. "Nothing. Just... I want to go home."

He gives me a knowing look, like he doesn't believe me, but doesn't push it. "Fine. Come on, princess. I walked here, so you're driving."

I groan. "Why do I always have to drive?"

"Because I don't have a car," Julian says simply.

Fair enough.

We walk through campus, cutting across the quad, where a few lingering students are still out, laughing and chatting under the glow of the streetlamps. The main road is lined with trees, their leaves just starting to turn orange, the cool air biting at my exposed arms.

By the time we reach my car—an old, slightly dented Honda that I refuse to get rid of—my body is aching with exhaustion. I pull open the driver's side door, sliding in with a sigh, while Julian flops into the passenger seat, instantly messing with the radio.

The engine rumbles to life.

As I pull out onto the road, the streetlights blur past, casting flickering shadows across the windshield. The farther we get from the arena, the quieter it becomes.

Finally, I feel like I can breathe again.

By the time Julian and I get back to our dorm, I'm half dead.

Campus is quieter at this hour, the chaos of game night left behind at the arena. The dorm buildings stand tall against the dark sky, their windows glowing dimly, the soft hum of late-night conversations and music leaking through the walls. The cold air bites at my skin, but I don't mind. It's better than the stifling heat of the concession stand, where the smell of fryer oil clings to me like a second skin.

Our dorm is on the third floor, and of course, the elevator is broken again.

I groan as we climb the stairs, my feet screaming at me with every step. "I swear, if this thing isn't fixed soon, I'm sleeping in the hallway next time."

Julian snorts. "I'll make sure to step over you on my way to class."

I elbow him weakly, but I'm too tired to put any force behind it.

Our dorm is small but cozy, just enough space for the two of us to live without wanting to kill each other—most of the time. The moment we step inside, I throw my bag onto the floor and collapse onto the couch, letting out a long, dramatic sigh.

Julian doesn't even blink. "You're so dramatic."

"Let me suffer in peace."

He shakes his head, dropping his camera bag onto the table before heading to the kitchen. "You want tea?"

"Do I look like I have the energy to answer that?"

He takes that as a yes.

I hear him moving around, the clinking of mugs, the faint hiss of the kettle, while I lay there, staring at the ceiling, willing my body to recover. My head feels too full and too empty at the same time, exhaustion pressing down on me like a weighted blanket.

Julian hands me a mug a few minutes later, and I mumble my thanks, sitting up slowly. The warmth seeps into my hands, soothing and familiar, but my mind is still restless.

Julian flops onto the couch next to me, stretching his legs out. "Alright. Spill."

I frown. "Spill what?"

"You're thinking too hard. I can hear it from here."

I stare into my tea, my fingers tightening around the mug. Julian knows me too well. Knows when something is sitting heavy on my chest, waiting to be let out.

I exhale slowly. "I just... I don't know. I'm tired."

"Obviously."

"No, not just from work." I hesitate, trying to put it into words. "It's everything. School. Money. The fact that I can barely afford to be here, and every time I check my bank account, it feels like I'm one step away from having to drop out."

Julian doesn't say anything right away, but I can feel his attention on me, waiting.

I force a small laugh, shaking my head. "It's stupid."

"It's not."

I swallow, my throat tight. I don't talk about this stuff much. Not because I don't trust Julian—I do. More than anyone. But because saying it out loud makes it real.

I set my mug down on the table, staring at the chipped edge of the wood. "You know my dad didn't want me to come here."

Julian nods. He's heard this before.

"College is expensive," I continue. "And it's not like we have money to throw around. My dad works nonstop, and even then, it's barely enough. And Simon..."

My chest tightens at the mention of my little brother.

"Simon's ten. He needs more than I do. And I—" I break off, pressing my lips together.

I don't say the rest. That I feel guilty for being here. That every time I swipe my student ID, every time I pay for another overpriced textbook or another meal, I think about how that money could've gone toward him instead.

Julian doesn't rush me. He just lets me sit there in the silence, the weight of my own thoughts pressing down.

I run a hand through my curls, exhaling slowly. "I just keep thinking, what if this is a mistake? What if I should've stayed home, helped out instead of running off to chase a degree I'm not even sure I can afford to finish?"

"You didn't run off." Julian's voice is steady, firm. "You worked your ass off to get here. You earned this."

I let out a dry laugh. "Tell that to my tuition bill."

"Hey." He nudges me, making me look at him. "You're doing everything you can. You're working, you're studying, and you're here because you deserve to be. Your dad might not see it now, but one day he will."

I don't know if that's true.

I want it to be.

But my dad has never understood why I wanted this so badly.

He thinks college is a waste of money. Thinks I should've just gotten a full-time job after high school and started saving for something practical. And maybe he's right. Maybe I'm being selfish.

But the thought of never leaving home, never trying, never going after something bigger than what I grew up with... that scares me more than any tuition bill ever could.

I lean back against the couch, rubbing at my temple. "Sometimes I wish my mom was still around."

The words slip out before I can stop them.

I never talk about her.

Julian is quiet for a moment. "Yeah." His voice is softer now. "Me too."

I nod, not trusting myself to say anything else.

I was a child when she died. I don't have a lot of memories of her, just little pieces—her voice humming while she cooked, the way she smelled like coconut and vanilla, the way she used to run her fingers through my curls when I couldn't sleep.

She was the one who told me stories about Brazil, about the places she wanted to take me. The one who made me believe in something bigger than the small town we lived in.

And when she was gone, that world disappeared with her.

I shake off the thought, blinking hard. I don't cry over this. Not anymore.

Julian nudges my knee with his. "Hey. You wanna watch something stupid and forget about life for a bit?"

I let out a breath, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah. That sounds good."

He grabs the remote, flipping through Netflix while I pull a blanket over my lap, the weight of it comforting.

And for now, that's enough.

THANK YOU FOR READING CHAPTER ONE!

Hey everyone!

First off, thank you so much for checking out the first chapter of Offside Hearts! Whether you're here for the hockey, the romance or the drama—I'm so happy to have you along for the ride.

I'll be uploading at least one chapter every Friday, so you can always count on fresh content to kick off the weekend! That said, I'll also be keeping things manageable with my health in mind, so if there's ever a delay, just know I appreciate your patience and support more than words can say.

Also, you don't need to read The Bad Boy's Ballerina before this one! While both stories take place in the same universe, Offside Hearts is a completely separate book with new characters, a new romance, and a whole lot of fake dating chaos.

To everyone who supported me through The Bad Boy's Ballerina—whether by reading, commenting, or just being there for the journey—thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your love for Amber and Bryan meant everything to me, and I can't wait to bring you another story that (hopefully) makes you laugh, scream, and maybe fall in love a little.

Get ready because this story is just getting started! See you next Friday!

— Méganne