Page 115 of Offside Attraction

For a moment, he says nothing, and I almost think he’s going to brush me off again. Then he lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” My voice rises despite my attempt to keep it steady.

He looks at me then—really looks at me—and the intensity in his dark eyes makes my stomach twist. “You. Us. This whole… thing between us,” he says. “It’s not as simple as you keep pretending it is.”

My gut flips, sharp and traitorous, but I force my shoulders back. “There is nothing, Hayes,” I say, even as my voice wavers. “You’re just—”

“Just what?” he cuts in, sharper now. “Just some guy on your hockey team? Just some asshole who gets under your skin?”

“Yes,” I fire back, heart pounding. “Exactly.”

He laughs again, softer this time, disbelief threaded through it. “Then why are you so worked up right now?”

The question lands like a slap.

My mind blanks. I want to deflect, to snap something back, but the way he’s watching me—like he’s daring me to admit something I’m not ready to face—pins me in place.

Why does he always do this? Why do I keep letting him? Letting him dig his fingers into places I’ve spent years barricading. Ever since the lake, I knew better than to let Hayes in. Knew better than to let him dismantle every wall I built just because my heart keeps betraying me.

This feeling will pass. It has to. Because I don’t know how many close proximities, silent confessions, and loaded looks I can survive before I let him have his way with me.

Shit.

The thought alone makes my skin crawl and burn at the same time. Makes me want to punch something—or slam my head against a wall just to knock whatever the hell this is out of me.

The car suddenly feels too small. The air too thick. Like there’s no room to breathe.

I turn toward the window, desperate for distance, even if it’s just glass between us.

“I’m not worked up,” I say finally, quieter but no less defensive. “You’re imagining things.”

“Right,” Hayes replies dryly. “Because you’re always this tense around everyone.”

I clench my jaw, refusing to rise to it. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Even if he’s right. Even if I’m always wound tight around him—and I know exactly why.

“I think you like it,” he adds, his voice softer now, but no less sharp. “The way I get under your skin.”

I whip my head back toward him. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I snap. “You’re not that special.”

His smirk returns—small, slow, almost seductive—but there’s something different in his eyes now. Something darker. More deliberate. “Keep telling yourself that, Miller.”

I scoff, letting out a short, humorless laugh as I turn back to the window. “You don’t know shit, Hayes. Just fucking drive.”

He scoffs under his breath. I glance at him from the corner of my eye and catch the way his jaw tightens, the muscle ticking like he’s biting back something he doesn’t want to say. I shake my head, wondering how the hell Coach Rivera expects us tobond—or whatever bullshit word he’s using—when Hayes is this irritating by default.

“You know,” Hayes says, his eyes locked on the road as he grips the wheel, “if you’ve got something on your mind, just say it. Listening to you scoff every five seconds is irritating.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “You’re one to talk.” I turn slightly in my seat, pointing between us. “The only reason I’m sitting here and pretending like you’re fucking important is because I wantthisto work. For the team. So don’t start talking to me about ‘us,’ because there is no us.”

He doesn’t interrupt. That alone pisses me off more.

“We’re gonna act civil,” I continue, voice tight, “pretend like we don’t hate each other—even though we do—because I don’t feel like getting benched. But make no mistake, Griffin. I want to punch you every time I look at you.”

Hayes’s lips curve again, slow and deliberate, as he nods once. “Okay.”

“Good.”