Page 37 of Offside Attraction

How could I even imagine something like that with the one person I should hate more than anyone?

I scoff, kicking off my shoes with my toes. Hayes has been nothing but a complete asshole these past few days — not that it surprises me. I made it clear I don’t care how he acts, as long as he stays out of my personal space.

Instead, he glares. Makes snide comments. Looks at me like I’m supposed to crumble under the weight of his gaze.

I don’t.

“Tryouts have been good,” I say flatly. “And Hayes is still a dick.”

“Yeah?” Seth grins. “Because you and I both know you want his—”

“Oh, screw you, Fernandez,” I snap. “I hope you get hit by a bus.”

He bursts out laughing, loud and obnoxious.

Seth knows about my sexuality. Always has. He’s never judged me for it once. My mom doesn’t know. Neither do Mark or Harper. Not because it’s some big secret — I just don’t like talking to my family about the people I have sex with. I don’t want them making a big deal out of something that feels small to me. Especially my mom.

“Come on,” Seth says. “You know it’s true.”

“Am I supposed to argue with you?” I sigh. “Hayes might be hot and…”

Annoyingly attractive—but Seth doesn’t need to know that.

“…and a good hockey player. But he’s not my type. And even if he were, the last thing I want is being involved with someone as self-centered and egotistical as Hayes. That’d be a total turnoff.”

“Yeah?” he teases. “I don’t see you cringing right now.”

“Oh, go to hell, Seth. I fucking hate you.”

“Yeah, you wish.” He glances at his phone. “Aaliyah just texted. She’s asking if she should start heading over. I’m gonna text her about the change of plans and go get ready.”

I nod as he smiles at me.

“Talk later, Coty,” he says, winking before hanging up quickly—before I can threaten his life for calling me that.

I smile to myself, tossing my phone onto the bed. Stripping out of my clothes, I dump them on the couch and head for the bathroom.

“Hey,”Isaylaterthat evening as I walk into the kitchen.

Mom’s cooking. Mark isn’t home yet. Harper’s probably in her room, glued to her phone and her new friends.

Mom looks up, surprised to see me there. She gives me a small, hesitant smile.

We haven’t really talked since our last conversation two weeks ago. I go to school, come straight home, and disappear into my room. Dinner is brief—short answers, curt nods—then back upstairs. On weekends, I take Shepard out just to avoid being around too much.

“Do you need help?” I ask, slipping my hands into my sweatpants pockets.

She lets out a small laugh. “You don’t have to help, Dakota.”

“I want to.”

She pauses, then smiles and nods. “Okay.”

“We’re making spaghetti and meatballs,” she says. “You can help by scooping and rolling the meatballs.”

“Sure,” I reply, smiling as I head to the sink to wash my hands.

Mom places the bowl of ground beef—already mixed with spices—on the kitchen island as I wipe my hands dry. I grab the ice cream scoop and start forming small meatballs, placing them neatly onto a white platter while Mom turns back to the stove to deal with the spaghetti.