Page 105 of Offside Attraction
Hayes stops by his car, pulling open the backseat door as he turns to look at me, a small smirk on his stupid face. “10 a.m. Miller, or I’m leaving your ass behind.” He throws his hockey bag into the backseat, shuts the door, and then climbs onto the driver’s seat.
I stand there, my fists clenched at my sides as I glare at his retreating figure. “Good luck with that,” I mutter under my breath, though I know damn well I’ll be ready at 10 a.m. because Coach Rivera would have my head if I wasn’t.
Hayes rolls down the window, his stupid smirk still plastered on his face as he revs the engine. “Don’t be late,” he calls, his tone smug, like he knows he’s already gotten under my skin.
I scoff, crossing my arms. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Right. See you tomorrow, princess.”
Before I can come up with a snarky reply, he drives off, the sound of his car disappearing into the night. I stand there for a moment, my chest tight with frustration, before turning and heading back to my own car.
The entire drive home, I can’t stop replaying the way he looked at me, the way his voice carried that infuriating mix of arrogance and amusement. It’s like he knows exactly how to push every single one of my buttons—and he does it just to see how I’ll react.
By the time I pull into my driveway, my head is spinning with everything I should’ve said, could’ve said, but didn’t. And as I climb out of the car and head inside, one thought lingers in my mind, refusing to be silenced:
Tomorrow is going to be hell.
Dinnerissupposedtobe quiet, but when you’re part of this household, it’s not. Mom and Mark talk about something that has to do with Mark’s job, while Harper texts on her phone instead of focusing on her food. All through this week, that’s exactly what she’s been doing—texting nonstop and I wonder who she’s texting with.
I push the vegetables around on my plate, not really hungry, my thoughts still stuck on the scrimmage earlier and the way Hayes looked at me in the parking lot. His words replay in my head—low, almost resigned: “Neither can I.”
“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” my mom says, snapping me out of my thoughts. Her tone is neutral, but I can sense thehesitation in her voice, like she’s worried she’ll say something that’ll offend me.
“Just tired,” I reply, not meeting her eyes.
“You should eat,” Mark chimes in, a small smile on his face. “You’ve got a big game coming up, right? Need to keep your energy up.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, taking a halfhearted bite of the roast chicken. It tastes fine, but I barely notice. My mind is too preoccupied.
“Everything okay with the team?” my mom asks, her gaze sharp now, like she can sense there’s more going on than I’m letting on.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I say quickly, too quickly.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press, for once. Instead, she picks up her glass of water, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You’d tell us if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”
“If something is wrong, I can handle it myself. I’m not a child, Mom,” I say, my tone clipped and sharp, the words come out harsher than I intend.
“Of course,” Mom mutters, flashing me a small smile but I can see the hurt in her eyes.
I exhale heavily, feeling the judgmental look of Mark and his daughter on me. “I’m sorry, Mom. I just mean to tell you that I’m fine and the team is great. And if there’s something wrong, I can handle it. You don’t have to keep worrying about me.”
Mom’s smile falters for a moment, and I can see the conflict in her eyes—like she wants to believe me but doesn’t quite trust that I’m telling the truth. It’s always like this with us, a constant push and pull of unspoken words and unresolved tension. I know she’s trying to right all the wrong she did in the past, but it takes time, and we’re getting there slowly.
“Alright,” she says softly, her voice laced with doubt. “I just want to make sure you’re not overloading yourself.”
“I’m not,” I reply quickly, forcing a reassuring tone. “I’ve got it under control.”
Mark clears his throat. “You’ve got a lot riding on this season, Dakota. Colleges are watching. Scouts. You can’t afford to let anything—or anyone—get in the way.”
I nod stiffly, biting back the urge to roll my eyes. I glance at Mom, who looks like she’s about to say something, but she hesitates, her gaze flicking to me and then away. “Well,” she says finally, forcing a brighter tone. “I’m glad to hear things are going well with the team. I just can’t wait to watch you play next week. You know it’s your first game in years,” Mom says, with barely contained excitement.
I flash her a small smile, “Yeah.”
“You’re not nervous, are you?” Mark asks, his heavy gaze fixed on me.
“No, I’m not.”
He grins. “Glad to hear that.”