Page 118 of Offside Attraction

“It is when I’m the only one here,” he says easily. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

“You’re not that lucky,” I mutter.

He laughs again, softer this time, teasing, and it crawls under my skin. Or maybe it does something else—I don’t let myself figure out which. I keep my head down, tying my skates tighter than necessary, focusing on the laces instead of the weight of his stare.

“So,” he says casually, like he’s not watching my every move. “You ready to lose?”

I snort, finally standing and stepping onto the ice. The cold bites at my cheeks—sharp, grounding, familiar. “Big words for someone who’s been skating in circles by himself.”

“Call it a warm-up,” he says, backing up as I glide toward him. “Gotta stay sharp. Can’t let you think you have a chance.”

“Keep talking, Griffin,” I say evenly as I close the distance between us. “We’ll see who’s still standing when this is over.”

“Sure thing, Miller,” he murmurs, voice dropping as his eyes rake over me—slow, deliberate. “Had a good night last night?”

Heat coils low in my gut at the way he looks at me, like he already knows the answer. My grip tightens on my stick as I force myself to meet his gaze, refusing to let him see the way my pulse jumps.

His smirk deepens.

He knows.

“Just fine,” I say, keeping my voice steady even as heat spreads through my chest. “Why? Lose sleep thinking about me?”

His smirk falters for half a second—but it’s enough. Enough to make something twist low in my gut. Satisfaction, maybe. Or something more dangerous. It’s hard to tell with him. He recovers quickly, rolling his shoulders and leaning lazily on his stick, but his eyes narrow, measuring now instead of mocking.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, though the edge is dulled, replaced by something more controlled. “I’ve got better things to think about.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter, skating past him toward center ice. I keep my eyes forward, focusing on the scrape of my blades, the cold biting into my lungs—but his presence sticks to me, heavy and inescapable, like a shadow I can’t outrun.

He follows, smooth and deliberate, every movement calculated. He doesn’t rush. Kings don’t. “Ready to lose, Miller?”he asks again, lighter now, teasing—but there’s a challenge beneath it.

I turn to face him, dropping into position. “Keep dreaming, Griffin.”

We set the rules fast. First to five. No goalies. No mercy. Just skill and pride.

The puck drops.

Hayes moves first—too fast. He slips past me like he’s been waiting for the opening, the puck gliding cleanly into the net before I can even adjust. He lifts his stick in a mock salute, smirk firmly back in place.

“One–nothing,” he says, skating backward like the ice belongs to him. “Try to keep up.”

My jaw tightens.

Next drop, I’m ready.

I beat him to the puck, drive forward, push my legs until they burn. He reaches, misses. I line up the shot and send it home hard.

The sound of the puck hitting the net is pure satisfaction.

“Guess you’re not the only one with moves,” I say, skating back to center.

This time, his smirk doesn’t fully recover.

“Alright, Miller,” he says, quieter now. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The game escalates fast—stolen pucks, clipped shoulders, near misses that leave us breathing hard. Every pass feels personal. Every glance heavier than the last. The score climbs until we’re tied at four, sweat dripping, legs screaming, the air between us stretched tight enough to snap.

Hayes circles me with the puck, eyes sharp, calculating. A crown doesn’t slip easily.