Page 72 of Offside Attraction

If I didn’t know him—reallyknow him—I might’ve believed the act.

What a pretentious piece of shit.

Then his attention shifts to me.

“Hey, Dakota.”

The sound of my name from his mouth catches me off guard, sharp and intimate in a way I’m not prepared for. I recover quickly, schooling my expression before he can notice.

“Hey,” I reply, forcing a polite smile instead of the glare burning at the back of my throat.

For a brief moment, his eyes linger on me—too long, too focused—before Mrs. Griffin breaks the tension.

“So, let’s get settled while Marta prepares dinner,” she says warmly. “Hayes, honey, go get changed.”

Mom nods, already distracted by the elegant space around her as Mrs. Griffin leads them farther into the living room. I follow behind, not without shooting Hayes a sharp look over my shoulder.

He doesn’t miss it.

This night is absolutely not going to end well.

Theclinkofsilverwareagainst fine china fills the air, but all I can hear is the thudding of my own heartbeat. The laughter from the other end of the table is white noise. My mother, Carol, is chatting animatedly with Mrs. Griffin about some charity gala and Mrs. Griffin’s charity work, and I can see my stepdad nodding along with Mr. Griffin’s golf stories, pretending like they’re old friends. I can’t wrap my head around it—the idea that my family would ever sit at the same table with them.

This is just fucking weird.

I want to get out of here. Far away from this place. Because the more I sit here while pretending to enjoy myself, the more I want to punch Hayes’ pretty face for even breathing the same air as me.

Yet here I am, stuck in this nightmare, sitting across from him.

Hayes Griffin. He’s directly opposite me, looking as calm and collected as ever. He’s cutting his food like he doesn’t have a care in the world. But I know better. I can feel his eyes on me even when he’s not looking. It’s like the air between us is charged, filled with years of unresolved tension.

His presence sets me on edge. Scratch that—it sets me on fire.

I hate that. I hate him. Every fiber of my being wants to lunge across the table and knock that smug look off his face. But I can’t. Not here, not in front of our parents, who seem oblivious to the fact that their sons have been at each other’s throats for years.

He doesn’t even look at me directly, but I know he feels it too. The same tension, the same rivalry. But there’s something else beneath it, something I’m not even sure I can name. Something that gnaws at me whenever we’re in the same room.

Every time he leans back in his chair or adjusts his grip on his fork, I feel it. The heat. The draw. I want to hate him, and I do. God, I do. But his very presence messes with my head in an infuriating way. It’s been like this ever since I came back, ever since I saw how much he’s changed.

As I force another bite of food down, I try to focus on anything else. My mother’s voice reaches my ears, light and pleasant, and I glance up. She’s laughing at something Mr. Griffin said. She looks…happy, like she fits right in with these people.

How could she be so comfortable here, when I’m sitting on a live wire?

Then there’s a brush of movement across the table—Hayes shifts, and for a split second, our eyes meet. It’s like a spark catching fire. His gaze flicks over me quickly, but in that brief moment, there’s something unspoken. Something dangerous.

I tear my eyes away, my hand gripping my fork tighter than necessary. My pulse is racing, and not from anger alone. It’s something else, something I don’t want to admit. I hate Hayes. I hate how he gets under my skin. I hate that no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, I can’t shake this…this pull I feel toward him.

The fact that it’s still there after all these years makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.

I focus on my plate, but the tension keeps building, thrumming in the air between us. The more our parents talk, the more I wish I could be anywhere else but here. I catch Hayes glancing my way again, his jaw tightening slightly. He’s good at hiding it—his cool, unbothered exterior—but I know the truth. I know him better than he thinks.

Underneath that calm facade, he’s itching for a fight just as much as I am. We always push each other like this, testing the limits. Only this time, we can’t. Not here.

But that doesn’t stop my blood from boiling every time his stupid, perfect face comes into view. And it doesn’t stop the fire that keeps flickering inside me, no matter how much I try to douse it.

I can’t stand it.

And yet, here we are, sitting across from each other in this fancy dining room, pretending like none of it exists. Like we don’t want to tear each other apart—or maybe something worse.