Page 117 of Offside Attraction

Hayes speaks again, his tone softer now. “You know, you’re not as hard to figure out as you think you are.”

I glance up, narrowing my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “Just that maybe you’re not as good at hiding how you feel as you think you are.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and loaded, and I hate how they hit a little too close to home. But instead of letting him see how much he’s gotten to me, I smirk and shake my head.

“You’re full of shit, Hayes,” I say, my voice steady even though my heart is pounding.

“Maybe,” he says, that damn smirk still firmly in place. “But you’re still sitting here with me, aren’t you?”

I glare at him, less sharper than I want to, but I don’t have a response. And the worst part is, he knows it.

CHAPTER 31

Theparkinglotiseerily quiet at the crack of dawn as I kill the engine. Hayes’ car sits across the lot, sleek and black, already there—of course it is. My jaw tightens. A one-on-one scrimmage with Hayes Griffin feels like a disaster waiting to happen, and Coach Rivera calling itbondingis a fucking joke.

I reach into the compartment and pull out my cigarettes, shaking one loose between my fingers. Leaning back against the headrest, I flick my lighter. The flame flares briefly, casting a soft glow inside the car before I inhale. The first drag burns my lungs in a way that steadies me, dulls the edge of the nerves I don’t want to acknowledge.

I shouldn’t be nervous. This is just hockey. Just another early practice.

And yet my chest tightens anyway.

My eyes drift back to Hayes’ car. He’s probably already on the ice, skating lazy circles like the place belongs to him. Like it always has. I scoff under my breath and tap the ash out the window before crushing the cigarette and tossing it aside.

Gear slung over my shoulder, I step out into the cold. The air bites immediately, sharp and unforgiving, and I zip my jacket as I cross the empty lot. Every step echoes, the sound too loud in the quiet, like the rink itself is holding its breath.

I change into my gear in the locker room and sling my bag over my shoulder before heading toward the rink. The moment I push through the doors, the sharp chill hits me, curling against my skin in a way that’s both familiar and grounding. The rink is mostly dark, save for the harsh overhead lights spilling onto the ice, illuminating the pristine surface like a spotlight.

And there he is.

Hayes moves across the ice with effortless precision, alone, focused entirely on the puck gliding under his control. The scrape of his skates cuts clean lines through the silence, the rhythmic tap of puck against stick echoing softly through the space. He doesn’t notice me at first, too locked in, too at home.

I hate how good he is.

Every turn is sharp. Controlled. Confident. He moves like the rink is an extension of his body, like the ice responds to him without question. For a second, I let myself watch—caught between irritation and something else I don’t want to name.

Something dangerous.

The way his jersey clings to his back, damp with sweat, outlining muscle I wish I didn’t notice, doesn’t help with the way I’m feeling right now. Neither does the fact that he’s alone, unaware, completely unguarded in his element. His hair, messy and damp from the effort, falls just enough to shadow his face every time he stops and switches direction. I hate that I notice. Hate that I’m even thinking about how good he looks out there.But it’s hard not to when he’s the only one on the ice—the only thing moving in the silence.

What the hell is wrong with me?

As if sensing me, Hayes suddenly looks up.

His smirk spreads instantly, sharp and cocky the moment his eyes meet mine. He slows to a stop at center ice, resting his stick lazily against his shoulder like he owns the place.

“If it isn’t Broody Miller,” he calls, his voice echoing through the empty rink.

“Griffin,” I reply flatly, dropping my bag onto the bench. “Don’t you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

“Not when it gets under your skin,” he shoots back, skating closer before stopping just short of the boards. He leans his stick against the plexiglass, resting his arms on top of it as he looks down at me. “Coach said we’re supposed to bond, you know. Maybe try smiling for once.”

“Maybe try shutting up,” I mutter, pulling out my skates and starting on the laces.

He laughs—low, warm—and I hate how my stomach flips at the sound. “This is gonna be fun,” he says, pushing off the boards and skating backward, effortlessly.

I roll my eyes, and against my better judgment, my gaze flicks over him—how annoyingly good he looks in his gear, how natural he is on the ice. “I didn’t realize this was your personal playground.”