Page 73 of Offside Attraction

I take another bite of roast, my stomach twisting. This night can’t end soon enough.

The clink of silverware fills the space between us, polite conversation tapering off into a brief, fragile silence.

It doesn’t last.

Kim Griffin—because of course it’s her—sets her wine glass down with deliberate grace and turns her bright, assessing smile on me.

“So, Dakota,” she says lightly, leaning forward just enough to seem interested. “How are you coping with the team? I heard you joined the hockey boys this year. Quite an ambitious move, considering you haven’t played much before now.”

The words are pleasant. Warm, even.

But there’s weight beneath them—curiosity sharpened by surprise. Almost disbelief.

I glance at Hayes without thinking.

Just in time to catch the flicker in his eyes.

Irritation. Brief, controlled—but there. His posture stays relaxed, casual as ever, but his jaw tightens as his fork pierces a piece of meat a little harder than necessary.

“I’ve been doing fine,” I say, keeping my voice even, though it comes out tighter than I mean it to. “The team’s good.”

Good is an understatement.

They’re elite.

And Hayes—damn him—is the best of them.

But I’m not about to say that out loud.

“Dakota is a born hockey player,” Mom cuts in, her voice warm with pride. “His father played in high school and college—he was his mentor. Taught Dakota everything he knows.”

Across the table, Hayes meets my gaze.

A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips.

I look away before I do something stupid, an irritated sound slipping from my throat despite myself.

“Well,” Kim says, still smiling, “you’re certainly brave for jumping right in. Hockey isn’t exactly easy to pick up at your age. But you seem to be managing just fine, right, Hayes?”

Before I can answer, he does.

“Oh, Dakota’s more than just managing,” Hayes says smoothly, turning on the charm like it’s second nature. “He’s actually pretty good—considering he hasn’t played for a while.”

The compliment, if you can even call it that, catches me off guard. I blink, unsure of how to respond. Is he actually saying something nice, or is this just another one of his games?

Then he keeps talking.

“You should see him on the ice,” he adds, addressing our parents now, his tone easy, generous. “He’s got natural talent. Bit reckless sometimes,” he chuckles softly, like he’s sharing a harmless secret. “But I guess that’s part of his charm.”

My blood heats instantly.

It’s all an act.

My blood heats instantly.

It’s a performance.

And he knows it.