stick around • matthew schaefer

chapter three

adrianna's pov.

people always say hate is loud.

like it shows up in shouting matches and slammed doors. like it's this big, explosive thing you can't miss.

but with matthew schaefer, it was quiet.

it was in the way his eyes followed me during drills. in the way he lingered half a second too long when we brushed shoulders at the bench. in the way he always, always had a comment waiting on his tongue. something sarcastic. something sharp. something that made my blood boil in the worst way.

it was in every smirk.

every smug look when coach complimented him.

every stupid, effortless play that reminded everyone—including me—that he was damn good at what he did.

and i hated that.

because no matter how hard i worked, no matter how many hours i spent on the ice before and after practice, he was still the one people talked about. he was the name that came up first in interviews. the jersey fans wore in the stands. the player coaches leaned on when the game got tight.

i was the first. the novelty. the experiment.

he was the golden boy.

and i was sick of it.

⸻

we had a back-to-back weekend coming up. two games. two chances to prove myself. two chances to shut him up.

i was locked in. focused.

until he ruined it. like he always did.

we were stretching after practice, everyone scattered across the neutral zone. i was in my own world, running through systems in my head, when he sat down next to me like he belonged there.

"you gonna stare at the ice all day, or do something useful with all that anger?" he asked casually, like we were friends. like he knew me.

i didn't even look at him. "funny. i was just wondering how you manage to skate with a head that big."

he chuckled under his breath. "you think about me a lot, huh?"

i turned to him, slow. "only when i'm trying not to punch a wall."

"must be exhausting, keeping all that rage bottled up."

"must be exhausting, being this annoying on purpose."

he grinned, and i hated how confident it looked on him. like he liked getting under my skin. like he was proud of it.

"you ever consider," he said, voice lower now, "that maybe you just don't like that i'm better than you?"

my whole body went still.

not because he was right.

but because of how badly i wanted to prove he was wrong.

i stood up without saying a word, dropped my helmet back on, and skated straight into a new drill before coach even called it.

if he wanted a war, i'd give him one.

⸻

that night, i stayed on the ice an hour after everyone else left.

just me and the sound of my blades carving lines into the cold.

i practiced puck retrievals, breakout passes, point shots. over and over and over.

i pictured his voice, his smirk, his stupid questions, and let all of it fuel me.

he might've been the golden boy.

but i'd never let him outwork me.

not now.

not ever.

the rink was silent except for the sound of the puck clanging against the boards when i missed wide. i circled back, breath heavy, sweat clinging to my neck, and reset.

i didn't care that the lights were dimming. or that my legs burned.

this—this was the part no one saw. the part that separated people like me from people like him.

i didn't coast on talent. i built myself. hour by hour. shift by shift.

but then, right as i lined up for one last slapshot, i heard the door open.

i turned, annoyed—ready to snap at whoever was interrupting my focus.

of course it was him.

leaning against the glass, arms crossed, helmet in one hand. casual. like he just happened to wander in.

"don't you have somewhere else to be?" i asked, stick still poised.

he shrugged. "wasn't tired yet."

"didn't ask."

he stepped onto the ice anyway. no gear. just his skates and that annoying, unreadable face. he didn't come toward me—just drifted lazily in circles, like he was thinking.

like he wanted something.

"you really can't stand me, huh?" he said after a minute.

i sighed. "what gave it away?"

he looked over at me, and for once, the cocky smile was gone.

"you're good, rossi. really good."

i blinked.

i waited for the catch.

"but i'm not gonna move out of your way," he added. "so if you want my spot, you're gonna have to take it."

there it was.

the challenge.

the line in the ice.

i didn't say anything. i just turned back toward the net, lined up, and fired a slapshot so hard it rang through the boards.

when i looked over my shoulder, he was already gone.

the rage has bottled up in me, and the next time will be the last he says something stupid without getting a little hurt.
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a/n: i'm creating a d1 crashout!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!