Page 24 of Offside Attraction

Skipping classes. Fighting. Suspensions every few weeks. Breaking school rules like they didn’t apply to me. Even getting into it with my own teammates.

It was stupid.

Looking back, it’s obvious I was searching for reasons to self-destruct.

When Mom and Mark moved us to Manhattan, I transferred to a private school and didn’t bother joining any sports. By then, I’d become addicted to underground boxing, and hockey faded into the background.

Still, I loved it.

Hockey was tied to my dad. He’d been a star player back in his day, and growing up, I wanted nothing more than to be like him. He taught me everything—how to skate, how to shoot, how to read the ice. Whenever he wasn’t sick, he played with me.

Leaving the team in middle school broke his heart.

I never told him the truth. Never told him a rich kid was beating the shit out of me behind closed doors and threatening me until quitting felt like survival. Instead, I lied and said I just wasn’t feeling hockey anymore.

Dad pretended it didn’t bother him.

But I saw the disappointment in his eyes.

Thinking about it now makes my fists clench.

I want to punch Hayes in his annoyingly perfect face.

God, I hate him.

I want to fucking hurt him.

And there are plenty of ways to hurt an arrogant, entitled bastard like Hayes Griffin.

All you have to do is take the one thing he loves and remind him the world doesn’t revolve around him.

After school, I grab my sports bag from the trunk of Mark’s Tesla. My car’s still stuck at the mechanic’s, so Mark lent me his spare until it’s fixed. I head into the locker room by the rink, change into my gear, and take a moment to steady my breathing.

This isn’t fear.

It’s anticipation.

At least thirty guys are trying out—most of them tall, broad, built like tanks. Only a handful will make the team.

I step onto the rink.

Heads turn.

Eyes follow.

And then there’s Hayes.

He’s staring straight at me, shock written all over his face—along with something else.

Something darker.

Good.

Shane and Ezra lean in, clearly asking Hayes something—something aboutme. But Hayes doesn’t even look at them. His attention is locked solely on me.

Then he skates forward.

Slow. Deliberate.