Page 57 of Offside Attraction

His left hand is tucked into his uniform pants pocket, his attention focused on his phone as he scrolls casually, completely at ease. Like he isn’t the reason my chest feels tight right now.

Of course he’s here.

I grit my teeth and keep walking, that familiar mix of irritation and something far more dangerous twisting in my chest.

God, he looks good.

His hair is slightly tousled, short bangs parted down the middle, and falling just over his eyebrows. I hate that I notice. Hate that I can’tnotnotice. The Crestview Prep uniform looks like it was tailored specifically for him—the dark blue blazer, the gray pants hugging his long, lean legs just right.

Even with his tie perfectly knotted, he looks unfairly flawless.

Like a god.

And I hate him for it.

I hate that I notice every little thing about him—but I do. It’s like every part of Hayes Griffin is engineered to get under my skin. The cocky grin. The tousled hair that looks unfairly good on someone I’m supposed to despise. That effortless confidence he wears like armor.

As if he feels my stare, Hayes looks up.

A slow smirk curves his lips as his gaze drags over my body, unhurried and deliberate. A familiar chill crawls down my spine, my skin prickling as I shiver despite myself. He holds my gaze as I approach my locker, watching every step like I’m something he already owns.

When I stop in front of him, his smirk widens.

“Miller.”

My last name rolls off his tongue like a taunt. Like a challenge.

“Griffin.” I plant myself in front of my locker, eyes narrowing when I realize he’s deliberately blocking it. “You planning on moving, or should I push you out of the way?”

He laughs—low, taunting, and annoyingly sexy—as he leans back just enough to mock the idea of giving me space. “No need to get violent. I just wanted to make sure you’re still game for tonight.”

“Game?” I scoff, fixing him with a hard stare. “You mean your stupid dare?”

“Skating blindfolded around the rink isn’t stupid,” Hayes says, eyes glinting with amusement. “It’s a test of skill. And I’d hate for you to chicken out after you were so cocky at the party.”

I feel the irritation coil tighter in my chest, sharp and familiar. The memory of him standing there that night—confident, smug, daring me in front of everyone—flashes through my mind. He’s always pushing. Always testing. Like he expects me to fold.

He’s wrong.

“I’m not backing down,” I say, voice steady. “And the last thing you’re going to do is scare me into it.”

His eyebrow lifts, smirk deepening. “Good. Because I’d hate for everyone to think Dakota Miller talks a big game but can’t follow through.”

The way he says my name—slow, deliberate, like he’s daring me to prove him wrong—makes my blood boil. But beneath the anger, there’s something else. Something I hate even more.

The closeness.

The way his eyes don’t waver. The tension humming between us, electric and dangerous.

“I’ll be there,” I growl, finally shoving past him to reach my locker.

He steps aside—but not before his shoulder brushes mine.

It’s barely a touch. Still, it sends a spark straight through me, sharp and unwanted, leaving me tense and annoyed with myself.

“You know you could always back down,” he says behind me. I don’t look at him, but I can feel his attention pinned to my back. “You could apologize for even challenging me in the first place.”

I scoff, a bitter chuckle slipping out as I turn—only to realize we’re suddenly far too close.