Chapter 1
ONE
ISLA
FIVE MONTHS LATER
The smell of weed fills the air as music blasts through the speakers.
It sounds like whoever set this party up called every person they knew to borrow their sound system.
It’s loud. Too loud for me, but I’ve already been called boring way too many times tonight by my friends to tell them that I want to leave.
My nickname is officially going to be Grandma, and honestly, at the expense of sounding like a complete loser, I’m beginning to be okay with that.
“Daisies” blares through the speakers, and even though I love this song, I just barely sway along because it’s far too peopley in here and obnoxiously noisy. I love the Biebs and all, but, good God, why would anyone think it should be this deafening?
My friends hang off each other, dancing like fools and living their best lives. The group of us that came together tonight have only known each other on a personal level since we got here last weekend, but I had heard their names long before as upcoming talents for women’s hockey.
I’ve been in New Hampshire for nearly a week, at a hockey camp that I didn’t even want to attend, but I knew it was a good opportunity for me. After all, only the best of the best male and female hockey players from all around the nation were invited to this, so here I am.
Part of me figured it would be too intense for the players to even consider partying in between training. Yet I now find myself surrounded by high and drunken idiots.
Blaze’s face gets closer to Nora’s, and I can just barely make out her talking about wanting to hook up with one of the dudes here, but just as I move a bit closer—because who doesn’t love some good, juicy drama?—Nora pulls her phone from her pocket.
“My sister’s calling me,” she says, stopping Blaze mid-sentence, bringing the phone to her ear before taking off toward the back door.
“Rude.” Blaze rolls her eyes, looking at me like she can’t believe Nora had the nerve to answer while she was talking.
But Blaze is also a little buzzed, and that’s making her a damn drama queen.
Blaze shrugs before diving into the details of a certain hockey player here who she wants to hook up with, but then a mysterious blond-headed man shows up beside us, and right away, she melts into a puddle at his feet, so I take that as my cue to head to the bathroom.
As I weave my way through the bodies of people, my mind wanders back to Nora answering her phone, and guilt tugs at my chest. As bad as it makes me feel, I turned my cell off when we first got here because my dad wouldn’t stop texting me.
Every message was made out to seem like he was just checking in, but I know Cam Hardy better than almost anyone—aside from my mom.
He’s overbearing with those he loves. And I think it killed him that, due to a work conflict, he couldn’t be here, helping out this week.
I love my dad. He came into my life when I was three years old and stepped into the role as my father without ever thinking twice.
My biological father has never wanted anything to do with me, which probably seems awful, but I hit the jackpot with Cam because he’s never treated me like anything other than his child.
Even when my mom had my little brother, Saint, part of me wondered if once my dad held a baby who was actually his own genetics, made by him and my mom, he’d suddenly feel less connected to me.
But if he ever felt that way, he certainly didn’t show it.
Ironically enough, growing up, Saint always whined that I’m Dad’s favorite.
For a while, I figured it was him overcompensating—afraid that I felt less than or something—but here I am, hours away from him, and I had to literally turn my phone off because he wouldn’t leave me alone.
It doesn’t matter that I’m eighteen years old and will be going to college in the fall, far away from home. If anything, this trip, I hope, will get my dad used to me not being right there. My mom too, I suppose. Though she gives me a little more space to make my own mistakes.
When I finally reach the bathroom, I give the door a slight push, and it thankfully opens with no one inside.
Quickly, I duck through the door and lock it before looking at myself in the mirror.
I certainly don’t look like a person who is having fun, but I’m here with my friends, so I guess I can’t complain.
When I was eight, after I begged my parents for months, my dad took me to my very first hockey practice.
He had taught me to skate pretty well, but he never wanted to push hockey on me, so instead, he did the opposite.
Once he realized how much I wanted it, he went all in on helping me reach every goal I set while always reminding me that if I ever didn’t want to do it anymore or if the pressure got to be too much to make sure I told him.
Guilt strikes me again, and I pull my phone out of my pocket and power it back on. Most people dream of having a dad like mine, and here I am, trying to avoid him.
Right away, a few messages come in, and I’m torn between rolling my eyes and smiling. While my dad’s messages are nonchalantly trying to figure out what exactly I’m doing, my mom’s message is simple.
Mom: Have fun. Be safe. I love you. And remember, you can call me. Anytime, day or night.
I smile. My mom got pregnant with me when she was in high school, and yet between my two parents, she’s the one who’s more chill. Then again, that doesn’t take much when her competition is Cam.
Me: Thank you. Love you.
Just as I reach down to slide my phone back into my pocket, it vibrates again. Only this time, it’s once again my dad.
Dad: I see how I rate. You answered Mom’s message and not mine.
Dad: Just gonna go cry myself to sleep. No worries.
Dad: Seriously. Forget those new skates I ordered, you dink. I’m going to give them to some random kid.
Dad: I’m kidding. Sort of.
I roll my eyes, shaking my head but still smiling. My dad takes very few things serious in life. And the only things he does take seriously are hockey and his family. But despite him joking around, I know him enough to recognize that his feelings are hurt, so I obviously type back a message.
Me: Sorry, Dad. Just been busy, and it’s hard to message you back each time when you send, like, five thousand messages a day.
Dad: It was not five thousand messages. It was, like … twenty-five.
Me: I love you. I’ll call tomorrow to check in.
Dad: You said that yesterday.
Me: And then you texted and FaceTimed me so many times in between that I didn’t feel the need.
Dad: You’re a mean little person—you know that?
Me: I love you. Go talk to Mom or Saint or something.
Dad:
Dad: All right. Fine. I love you, Isla. Be safe.
Dad: I’m a cool dad, FYI. Okay. Goodbye.
Tucking my phone into my pocket, I fight back a laugh just as someone knocks on the door.
“Be right out,” I call, though with the music so loud, I’m not entirely sure the person can even hear me.
I wash my hands extra well because this is a frat house, and just being in this room right now is disgusting.
The knock becomes more of a pounding, followed by a deep voice. “Hurry up! I gotta take a piss!”
Yanking the door open, I’m greeted by the world’s biggest douchebag.
Hendrix Hunt.
Right away, a smirk tugs at his lips. And with his dark hair that—as always—is perfectly messy yet somehow looks styled, he puts his arm over the doorway, blocking me in.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t sweet little Isla Hardy,” he drawls slowly, taunting me, just like he has all week. “Almost didn’t recognize you without your jersey on, Nineteen. Tell me, does it make Daddy proud that you followed in his footsteps, even wearing his beloved number on your back?”
It’s a shame the universe would waste such good looks on an absolute jerk like him. But here we are.
“Not tonight, Hunt,” I grumble, blowing a piece of loose hair from my face. “Besides, I thought you had to piss.”
“Always got a little time for you, Nineteen,” he coos, dipping his head lower, making a few long strands fall onto his forehead.
“Does your daddy know you’re partying tonight?
” In true Hendrix form, before even giving me a chance to answer, he tsks me.
“He wouldn’t be very happy with you, would he? ”
“Move out of my way,” I hiss, hitting him with a leveling glare. “Unless you want me to move you myself with a kick directly to your nuts.”
My words only bring a bigger smirk to his lips.
“Isla, baby, you’re just looking for reasons to touch my nuts. All you gotta do is ask nicely; I’m not shy.”
This dude infuriates me because he always has a comeback, no matter what I say. He’s so sure of himself that it’s sickening. And ever since we both arrived at this stupid hockey camp, he’s made it his job to harass me.
“Get. Out. Of. My. Fucking. Way,” I growl as my heart starts to quicken. I’m on edge already, but this asshole is making everything worse. “Now.”
“You know, I kind of like it when you’re sassy,” he says with a smirk. “Does something to me. Unlike when you’re walking around, acting like a Goody Two-Shoes.” He shrugs. “Course, if my dad got me a spot on whatever college team I wanted, I’d probably keep my act together too, Nineteen.”
“Fuck you,” I spit. “I wasn’t given—” Pulling in a deep breath, I remind myself that it’s not worth it.
I’ve been dealing with this for years. Other players always assuming that just because my dad was a huge NHL star, I haven’t had to work for anything.
“You know what? I’m not wasting my breath on an egotistical maniac like you.” I move my head from side to side like a snake as the words seep from my lips. “So, whatever daddy issues you have, they aren’t my problem, asshole. Now, do me a favor and get the fuck out of my face.”
Planting a palm on his chest, I give him a shove backward. He doesn’t budge, but his expression changes from amused to something darker. And then he huffs out a laugh and drops his hand down.
I don’t stick around to ask questions though. I just bolt, heading away from the bathroom and out of this house. Because men like Hendrix Hunt are womanizers. And I don’t want him anywhere near me.