Chapter 1 #2
Her lip curled up in an expression that could only be described as contempt before she sidestepped me to enter the player’s bench.
She started removing her gear in haste, eventually stripping down to a dry-fit long sleeve and leggings.
With a mind of their own, my eyes tracked her movements, taking in the shape of her toned body beneath the skintight clothing, lingering over her muscular legs and the distracting curve of her ass.
When she glanced over at me again, her eyes were narrowed.
“Don’t ogle me after that response. Assholes don’t get the right to look. ”
I scoffed. “I wasn’t ogling you. Don’t think so highly of yourself.”
“Oh, my apologies,” she said, pulling her braid out from under the sweatshirt she’d tugged on. “I must have imagined you eye-fucking me.”
“Look, there’s no need for you to be snippy with me. I’m trying to be helpful by explaining the rules around here.”
She gave me a saccharine-looking smile that somehow felt as far away from sweet as possible. “Then understand I’m trying to be helpful when I say this—removing the stick lodged up your ass might make you a more bearable human being.”
My jaw clenched, but I chose to ignore her comment. “The women don’t play here, that’s a fact. You should learn it before your first day of school.”
“I’m not setting up camp here,” she hissed, cheeks turning a deep shade of red. “I only needed a little ice time.”
“Again, not my problem.”
Her eyes filled with a glimmer of something I couldn’t decipher, and the sight triggered a warning bell inside my head. Her next words made my muscles tense.
“I’m happy to make it your problem.”
Was this girl threatening me on my own ice? I searched my brain for an adequate response, but nothing came to mind; I was too caught off guard by her audacity.
“As delightful as this conversation has been,” she said, gathering her bag and slinging it over her shoulder, “I’d rather eat shit than spend one more second in your presence.”
I moved to stop her before I could even think about the implications, my fingers curling around the sliver of bared skin at her wrist. Unexpected heat surged up my arm and through my body when our skin met, and I dropped her hand as if I’d been scalded.
The girl stared down at the spot where I’d touched her as if she’d experienced the same strange sensation.
“What’s your name?” I asked after a beat of stunned silence.
Her brows pulled together at my question. Gone was the animosity behind her stare. In its place, something entirely foreign had taken root. I had no idea what to make of the expression.
“Please, tell me,” I commanded in a soft whisper.
I couldn’t hide the desperation in my voice.
Knowing her name was more important than my own pride.
For whatever reason, I was convinced that the sound of it would put an end to this fiery feeling inside me.
But rather than concede, she shook off her shock and offered up another vexing threat.
“You’ll know soon enough, asshole.”
>> <<
Grace
The promise left my lips before I even knew what it meant.
In my anger, I would have threatened just about anything for the chance to wipe the smug expression from his face.
So long, douchebag. I refused to waste another second of my life speaking to this guy, even if he was outrageously attractive.
No one with eyes that green and hair so perfectly disheveled should be allowed to exist. Without another word (and there were several choice words I would have loved to use), I stepped around his annoyingly tall frame and made for the exit.
Hockey was a relatively small world. I’d met guys like him before, players who thought that good looks and talent on the ice meant they were superior to everyone else.
There was no shortage of arrogance within college athletics, but this guy really took the cake.
I wouldn’t have been shocked to learn he was nothing more than a cherry-picking bender.
With my morning now thoroughly ruined, I made the short trek back to my on-campus housing.
The sun was peeking over the buildings as I stepped outside DuLane Arena.
Burning light bathed the grounds in yellow-orange hues and cast tree-shaped shadows across the grass.
Several students shot me strange looks as I struggled down the path with my equipment bag in tow, muttering vague threats under my breath.
When I caught a glimpse of the ivy-veiled stone structure at the end of the road, I let out a sigh of relief.
After three flights of killer stairs, I slipped inside the apartment, dumped my bag on the floor, and let out a huff of frustration.
“Did you bring your hockey gear with you for a morning stroll?” My roommate’s voice carried from the kitchen.
Caroline Hart stood over the stove, her long hair piled into a messy bun as she stirred the contents of her pan over the burner.
In the three days since we’d met, I’d learned a lot about the tall blond, the most important being she was the captain of the women’s hockey team and our first-line right defense.
Her socials were public, and I’d spent my first night in the apartment lying in bed, digging through her online profile.
Alongside her captain duties, she also served as treasurer of the student pre-law organization, volunteered at the local animal shelter, and posted weekly vlogs about fashion.
I didn’t know how the girl had time to sleep, let alone pursue a degree.
“I really needed to clear my head this morning, so I stopped by DuLane to get a little ice time,” I explained, taking a seat at the counter. Her brows rose in surprise. “Yes, I know, that’s where the men play. But, in my defense, I didn’t think anyone would be there so early this morning.”
Caroline chuckled. “I take it someone else had the same idea. Let me guess—tall, extremely handsome, probably a little bit rude? Hard to narrow it down because that’s literally the entire team.”
“A little bit rude? He was a complete dickhead! I couldn’t believe how offended he was that I deigned to skate on the men’s ice.”
“The players are protective over that rink. Five years ago, it was completely renovated with funds that were donated by a wealthy alumnus. The guys think they’re hot shit because they have access to one of the best hockey facilities in the country.
Plus, the entire school panders to them.
You would think they were famous by the way they’re treated around here.
” She pressed her lips together, as if stopping herself from revealing any more information.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I asked.
“She left out the part where we practice in a rink that should have been condemned years ago. Meanwhile, the men live in luxury at DuLane Arena,” a voice said behind me.
Our other roommate, Lydia West, was leaning against the arched entrance to the kitchen.
She wiped at her sleep-bleary eyes with long, ring-covered fingers, the gold jewelry flashing against a beam of sunlight pouring in through the window.
A yellow scarf tied around her head prevented a mass of dark curls from falling into her eyes, and she clutched a sketchbook against her hip, one I’d rarely seen her without since we’d met.
The right winger was one of the highest-ranking female hockey players in the NCAA.
Since her freshman year, Lydia had been an unstoppable force on the ice.
I was in awe at the opportunity to play on the same team as her.
“You can’t be serious,” I said, glancing between them in disbelief.
“She is,” Caroline replied. “Despite the fact that we have a better record than the men—two whole national titles better—they’re treated like freakin’ celebrities while we’re forgotten in the haunted rink on Third Street.”
“Haunted? We have to practice in a haunted rink? Please tell me no one died there.”
Both girls laughed.
“Not that I know of,” said Lydia, “but the building is really old and makes strange noises, so everyone says it’s inhabited by spirits.”
That was a relief to hear. The last thing I needed was to worry about a potential haunting.
As a firm believer in the paranormal, one who spent her teen years chronically on creepypasta, I took that stuff seriously.
It was always smart to be cautious of ghosts—some had the potential to be vengeful and nasty—just like it was smart to be cautious of dickhead hockey players.
“Is there nowhere better for us to train?” I asked.
“Yes and no,” Caroline said. “We used to practice at a facility in Big Creek, which is only ten minutes north, but they had an electrical fire this summer. There was too much damage to make repairs, so they tore the whole place down. The next closest rink is our home-game arena, but it’s forty-five miles south.
The distance is doable for weekend games, but driving an hour there and back during the week messes with almost everyone’s class schedule.
The administration reopened McKinley Rink, which was built in the fifties but closed a few years ago.
It’s not great, but it’s somewhere for us to get ice time. ”
Knowing this made my encounter at the arena even more frustrating.
Having played hockey my whole life, I’d seen first-hand how different the boys’ programs were from the girls’, how underdeveloped our training was when compared to the male leagues.
I’d even played on the boys’ team in high school because that was the only way I could reach the level of competitiveness I craved.
And here I was, at one of the best hockey schools in the country, and it was more of the same.
“I need to figure out who that guy was so I can mail him a box of dog shit,” I muttered.
“What guy?” Lydia asked.