Page 20 of Offside Attraction

Once inside my room, I shut the door and lock it before dropping my backpack beside the bed. I shrug out of my blazer and toss it over the white couch in the corner. From one of my drawers, I pull out Shepard’s food and pour it into his bowl.

Then I collapse onto my queen-sized bed, shirt untucked, the day finally catching up to me.

I fish a cigarette from my pocket, slip it between my lips, and light it. Smoke fills my lungs as I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to erase today from my head.

Or rather—one specific part of it.

Hayes.

If I truly wanted to forget him, I should stay as far away from him as possible. Not march straight into his territory by joining the hockey team.

I already know this decision is self-destructive.

I know I’m going to hate the outcome.

But I don’t care.

Not if it means giving Hayes Griffin a taste of his own medicine.

Hockey is Hayes’s life.

The one thing I’m sure he actually loves. Everything else he pretends to care about feels manufactured—another role he plays to keep people satisfied. But hockey? That’s real. I saw it every time he stepped on the ice.

Growing up rich means living under a microscope. Living up to a family name. Performing perfection for parents who are always watching. For people who expect greatness as a given.

It almost makes me feel sorry for him.

Almost.

He’s still a dick.

A knock sounds at my door, followed by my mom’s voice.

“Dakota?”

“Fuck,” I mutter, jolting upright.

I yank the cigarette from my mouth, stub it out in the ashtray hidden in my drawer, and slam it shut. I grab the air freshener and spray the room like my life depends on it.

Shepard lifts his head from his food, ears twitching.

I press a finger to my lips.

“Don’t say shit.”

As much as we fight, I love my mom. I respect her. And the one thing she absolutely cannot stand is me smoking—especially now, when everything between us feels brittle.

I’m still angry she dragged us back here. Still grieving the life I’d managed to carve out in New York. I didn’t have many friends, but I hadone. I had stability. I had space.

When the smell is finally masked, I unlock the door.

Mom’s eyes immediately sweep my room, sharp and suspicious, like she expects to find something incriminating lying out in the open.

Porn magazines, probably.

I still don’t get why she thinks I’d keep those around. We have the internet. Who does that anymore?

“I wasn’t masturbating,” I mutter, rolling my eyes as I walk back into the room.