Page 120 of Offside Attraction

I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t ready for him to actually say it—didn’t think he ever would. The apology hangs between us, thin and fragile, like if I breathe wrong it’ll shatter.

“Sorry doesn’t change anything,” I say after a long beat, my voice rough. “It doesn’t fix what you did.”

“I know,” he replies, meeting my gaze now, serious in a way I’ve never seen before. “But it’s all I’ve got.”

That honesty twists something ugly in my chest, and I hate it. Hate that I can see a glimpse of the boy he used to be—the one who wasn’t always cruel, who wasn’t always trying to break me.

But it doesn’t erase the past.

If anything, it pisses me off more.

How dare he drag up my history like this? How dare he talk about that version of me—like he didn’t destroy him? What is he trying to do? Hurt me? And then offer an apology like it’s supposed to make things right?

My grip tightens on my stick, knuckles whitening. Right now, I want to fucking hit him. Make him bleed for every pain he caused me.

“I’m sorry, Dakota,” Hayes says again, voice strained as he skates toward me, slow and careful. “I really am. I don’t know what you want me to do to prove it.” I can see the honesty in his eyes, but I don’t care.

“I’d stay the fuck away from me if I were you,” I snap, every word sharp. “Because right now? I just want to hurt you.”

He stops a few feet away, skates screeching softly against the ice. His jaw clenches, like he’s bracing himself. Then—unexpectedly—he steps closer.

“Then do it,” he says quietly. “If that’s what it takes—hit me.”

I blink. “What?”

He drops his stick to the ice with a sharp clatter and spreads his arms. “Go ahead, Dakota. Take your shot.”

I clench my fists, my chest heaving as the rage bubbles closer to the surface. Part of me wants to take him up on it—to swing my stick, to let my fists connect with that stupid, smug face of his. But another part of me hates that he’s standing there, offering himself up like this, like he’s trying to absolve himself with some noble act.

“You think this fixes anything?” I shout. “You think letting me hit you makes up for what you did?”

“No,” he says, arms falling back to his sides. His voice is steady, stripped bare. “But maybe it helps you let it go.”

I laugh bitterly, the sound harsh even to my own ears. “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t just get to decide when this is over.”

“I’m not deciding anything,” Hayes snaps back, his voice rising. “I’m trying, Dakota. For once, I’m trying. But all you ever do is push me away.”

“Can you blame me?” I shout, my voice echoing through the empty rink. “After everything you’ve done, do you honestly think I’m just going to let you in?”

He flinches, his expression hardening for a moment before something softer breaks through. “No,” he admits quietly. “I don’t. But I’m still here.”

The sincerity in his voice knocks the air from my lungs. My hands tremble, my stick clenched so tight it feels like it might snap. All the anger, the resentment, the confusion—it’s too much. And he’s standing there, looking at me like he actually cares. Like he wants me to see something in him I’ve been refusing to acknowledge for years.

“Fuck you,” I mutter—and shove him hard in the chest.

He stumbles back but doesn’t retaliate, his face unreadable.

“Feel better?” he asks quietly, almost resigned.

“No,” I growl, shoving him again, harder. “Not even close.”

This time he doesn’t move back. His hands shoot out, gripping my wrists and yanking me forward until my chest slams into his. The air between us turns thick, suffocating. My breath hitches as I look up at him—so close I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

His grip tightens for a beat—then he pulls me in and crashes his mouth against mine.