Dear Hotshot, I Hate You

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Mollie

Hockey breeds a special kind of closeness. Closeness among the fans, joking as they watch their favorite sport. Closeness among the puck bunnies, primping and wearing the jersey of the player they hope to catch.

And then there’s the closeness among the players. Skating hard, out of breath, clashing with the opposing team, all of them trying to get the puck into the goal just one more time.

They’re close, whether they actually like each other, or not. It makes no difference whether it’s an NHL team vying for the Stanley Cup, or a beer league playing a pickup game for fun.

Hockey is the stitching that joins all the different quilt squares into a great big blanket.

It's addictive and fun.

It’s also how the players earn their money; by bashing and stealing and shooting.

For the true adrenaline junkies, that means even in mid-June.

We’re three weeks out from a loss, and the facility has that specific off-season energy; loose and a little aimless.

But not for guys like my brother Beck. He’s the oldest on the team, turning thirty-five this fall, and he’s a D-man.

His body has to stay in perfect shape for him to be able to slam the opposition into the boards every night for seven-to-nine months a year.

I stand on the side of the practice rink and watch him while holding up my phone. I'm not shooting videos of their practice because I'm a fangirl. Or at least, not only because of that.

After a career-ending injury pulled me out of competitive skating, I landed here. Yes, I did allow my big brother to get me a job as the team's social media coordinator. Yes, I am a nepo baby. Nepo sibling? Whatever.

Beck zooms by again, coming to a stop near me.

I start a new video of him using the edge of his skates to stop short, and consider the other people on the ice with him.

They're a mix of Seattle Havoc players, farm team players, some college players that the team has their eye on for future drafts, and a handful of coaches who just show up to stay fit for the season.

"Everybody warmed up?" Beck calls. He's the captain of the team. And right now, since the skate is informal, he has more authority than almost anyone else.

I see Connor Li and Theo Kozlov, two guys who have just graduated from being rookies, with twenty-five and twenty-seven games under their respective belts.

There’s Moose Taggert, a veteran right winger who's older than my brother.

Jamie Proulx, a green rookie who plays center, and Jett Huxley, the team's ace goalie, round out the players I know.

Assistant Coach Ryan is also here, warming up with everyone else while dressed down in track pants and a Havoc-gray zip up jacket.

"Let's separate into teams," Beck yells. "No contact, short periods, short shifts. The goal here is just to get our heart rates up. Cardio, gentlemen, not endangering our ACLs."

A murmured chuckle is the reply as the players skate lazily toward one bench or the other. Beck turns to me, cocking a brow. "Mollie, got that?"

I hit end and grin at him. "Sure did. Thanks again for letting me follow you around filming essentially every day."

He inclines his head. "It's been getting a lot of attention from fans, just like you promised. So maybe I should be thanking you."

"Filming thirst traps of Connor and Theo stretching on the ice was getting old. Your stuff is more ‘competency porn,’ which drives the puck bunnies wild."

He snorts. "They should see me when I'm up all night with my four-year-old, covered in vomit. That would scare them off right quick."

I arch a brow. "I'm pretty sure it would do the opposite."

"You're dreaming."

Winking at me, Beck skates off to where Kozlov is holding the pen open for him.

I film for a few minutes while they skate, watching them swoop and glide.

It's a nostalgic moment for me. I've been watching boys rough each other up on the ice since I was old enough to walk.

I was three years old when I got my first pair of skates so I could swoop and glide as well.

The sound of skates on ice brings up a sensation so sharp it takes my breath away.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and I take a deep breath. I'm not thinking about that right now. This is not the time or place to get upset.

"Mollie bo bolly," Indie sings as she slings her bag down and collapses next to me. "Mollie, baby, sweetheart. What's up, buttercup?"

I can't help but grin. She has blue hair pinned up with chopsticks, a pretty dress paired with ripped tights, warm brown skin, and the biggest shit-eating grin. It's impossible not to smile in her presence.

"Indie bo bindy," I croon back to her. "I'm glad you made it. Did you make it through security okay?"

“Hey!” Indie gives me a quick hug, rolling her eyes. "You'd think they’d at least question me after I started a TikTok account named ‘HockeyStalker,’ but no. They’ll just let anybody in."

"Lucky for you, they don't stop psychos at the door."

"Psh. Do you think security has found your fan account, PuckBunny47?"

"Indie!! I told you that in confidence."

"You did get me into the rink today, so…" She wrinkles her nose playfully. "I’ll let it slide for now. But don't think that I missed that you were making thirst trap videos about the Seattle Havoc long before you started working here."

"Whatever. You liked every single one."

"Oh, I definitely liked them." She looks out over the rink and swipes her tongue over her lips, ogling the players. "So, are you dating anyone? Any hockey boys hanging around in your apartment?"

I groan and twist my hair around my finger. "God, no. That's my rule. No hockey players, period."

"Why not? They're hot."

"Because I grew up with Beck and his teammates.

" I watch Connor skate by, his muscles flexing under his shirt.

“I know exactly what hockey players are.

They're loud and grabby, and treat women like a perk of the job.

They rotate through them the way they rotate through cities, and they don't lose a single night of sleep over any of it. I decided a long time ago that I’m not going to be someone's Seattle girl.”

Indie lifts an eyebrow. "So that's why you're still a virgin?"

My face goes hot. "That's not... I mean… that's part of it. But mostly? Hockey boys are the worst."

She starts to reply, but movement across the rink draws her eye. Grinning, she gives my shoulder a little shove and jerks her head toward the hockey player who's pushing onto the ice from the tunnel.

The shove was unnecessary because I always know who she wants me to see. There's only one Alex fucking Thorne.

His arrival throws the whole rink into chaos.

My throat constricts. My heart speeds up. I’m sure my pupils are huge.

With his dark good looks, towering height, and his devil-may-care smile, Alex Thorne is nothing but trouble. He's hot, he's shrewd, and there’s a reason he’s co-captain with Beck.

He's the Seattle Havoc's golden boy.

When he claps a rookie on the back after a good drill, the kid will stand two inches taller for the rest of the session. I’ve watched him do this exact thing approximately forty times.

Thorne is an all-around good guy, the darling of the Seattle Havoc's public relations department. Plus, he’s my brother's best friend.

And he gets under my skin like no other guy can.

Thorne skates out to the center of the rink. To my brother, he says, "Sorry I'm late. I was in a phone interview that went long. Where do you need me?"

Theo pounds on the side. "Over here, man."

One of the farm guys calls, "Nah, come on our team, Thorne! Kozlov got you last time."

Thorne grins and skates away from Theo. "When he's right, he's right."

"Okay, but we get the other captain," Theo says, jerking his head toward my brother. "It's only fair."

Indie leans over the side of the rink with her phone out. "Hey, Thorne! Can I interview you before you leave?"

Thorne takes off his helmet as he skates over to us. His gaze flits over me and his lips curl in the tiniest smirk. "I thought they weren't letting fans in during off-season skates anymore,” he says to her.

"Excuse me, I'm a journalist." Indie flashes him an irresistible grin and adds, "And Mollie invited me here to see how the pros do it in their downtime."

Indie knows how to do this. She manages to flirt without looking like a desperate, needy little girl. Jealousy sparks, burning bright inside my chest.

"Oh yeah?" His lips twitch as he represses a smile. With his day or two of stubble, cheekbones carved of marble, and extremely kissable lips, Alex Thorne is a deadly weapon. He's so hot that I can hardly begrudge Indie when she hits pause on her camera and leans closer, drawn into his hot guy trap.

Don't fall for it, I want to tell Indie.

I've seen so many girls fall into that trap.

Thorne is a total man-slut, with a sexual history longer than a freaking Dostoevsky novel.

The worst part is that he's praised for it. Instead of bemoaning that they’re just the latest in a barrage of one-night stands, his dates always give glowing reviews.

They say he's a great kisser, fun to hook up with, kinky but respectful, and a good listener.

Gag me with a dirty hockey pad.

"Thorne!" Connor calls. "You can flirt after we break for the day!"

"You know, Miss Journalist." Thorne's baby blue eyes light up with mischief. He skates closer and leans on the boards, jerking his head to the rink. "If you want to get closer to the players, you can.”

"Really?!" Indie squeals, looking at me. "Can I?"

"Go nuts. Stay in public spaces and don't bother the players."

"Yes!" She books it toward the tunnel, leaving me smiling after her.

Thorne rakes his fingers through his hair and considers me. "So?"

My heartbeat picks up as I arch a brow. "So what?"