Page 17 of Offside Attraction

“You know,” he adds casually, “I’m glad you’re back, Miller.”

I straighten slowly, turning to face him fully. Annoyance coils tight in my chest as our eyes lock. He’s still unnervingly calm, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Is this a joke?

“You used to be an asshole, Hayes,” I say flatly. “Now suddenly you’re glad I’m back? What the fuck is your problem?”

“What?” He lifts a shoulder. “A guy can’t be honest anymore?”

I arch a brow. “Honest about what? We were never friends. Remember?”

The smirk fades. Something harder settles in its place.

“Let me guess,” I continue. “You missed your punching bag.”

Hayes lets out a low chuckle, licking his bottom lip like he’s amused. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad about what happened four years ago. We were kids, Miller. We were just having fun.”

The words hit like a slap.

“Fun?” I step closer, anger ripping loose. “Your ‘fun’ ruined my life. So don’t stand there telling me you’re glad I’m back or that it didn’t mean anything. You really don’t want to see how angry I am, Hayes.”

My nose flares as I glare at him.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” I continue. “Don’t act like we’re friends. I can’t believe you actually thought I’d be fine after everything you did. How fucking delusional are you?”

For a second, his expression is unreadable.

Then—slowly, deliberately—his lips curl into a smug smile.

I want to smash it off his face.

“Damn, Miller,” he drawls. “Look at you dropping all those F-bombs. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

His laugh is deep. Smooth. It sends a ripple of irritation straight down my spine.

Why does he have to be so fucking attractive?

“Still the asshole I remember,” I mutter.

“I’m the asshole?” He runs slender fingers through his dark hair, amused. “You’re the one clinging to something that happened years ago. We were kids. Goofing around.” He smirks, boredom flickering in his eyes. “You really still holding onto that?”

“Go fuck your mom, Hayes.”

I grab my blazer off the banister and shoulder past him, slamming into him hard enough to make my point before walking away.

Myfirstdayofhigh school already sucked the moment I locked eyes with Hayes.

Now I’m standing in the principal’s office for a crime I didn’t even realize I committed, somehow managing to make the day worse.

“Dakota Miller,” Principal Caldwell says as she settles behind her large oak desk.

She’s a Hispanic-American woman in her early forties—black hair, caramel-toned skin, sharp brown eyes, thin lips, and a perpetually unimpressed expression. She’d be beautiful if she smiled more often.

“According to your file,” she continues, “you attended Dalton Middle School before you and your mother moved to New York. Since then, you’ve been enrolled in more than six high schools in under four years.”

She studies me over the rim of her glasses.

“You’re a very stubborn kid, Dakota.”