Chapter 1
Tracy’s POV
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I glared at the thick stack of questionnaires in my hands, my voice trembling with suppressed rage.
“No can do, Tracy. You’re the rookie. Grunt work falls on you.”
Sophia, our cheer captain, patted my shoulder. “Hand these out to every guy on the hockey team. We need their feedback on our routine. It’s crucial for securing our league sponsorship.”
I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.
Today was the mock game for the university men’s hockey team, which meant a joint practice for us.
It was all prep for the National League.
And because of that, I was forced to share an arena with Isaiah.
Isaiah. The star captain of the hockey team.
Six-foot-three and two hundred pounds of walking, talking testosterone.
Half the girls on campus were ready to scream their lungs out for his signature dark curls and icy blue eyes, while the other half were secretly obsessing over his eight-pack.
Everyone except me.
Two years ago, my dad and his mom rushed into a blended family, and I moved into his house.
From day one, he made his hatred for me crystal clear.
He acted like a feral beast whose territory had just been invaded, always tracking me with this dark, predatory glare like he wanted to swallow me whole. Like my mere existence in his life was some unforgivable sin.
I glanced down at my uniform—a skin-tight crop top and a pleated skirt so short it barely covered the curve of my ass.
Taking another steadying breath, I braced myself and carried the flyers toward the pack of hockey players who had just stepped off the ice.
The air was thick with their scent—a heavy, overwhelming mix of aggressive male sweat, winter frost, and expensive leather gear.
“Hey, look over here, blondie!” a few of the guys catcalled, whistling.
My face burned hot. I gripped the edges of the paper until my knuckles turned white and quickly shoved the forms into their hands.
Finally, I marched straight up to the massive figure sitting on the bench, methodically pulling off his padded gloves.
“Isaiah.” I gritted my teeth, forcing my voice to stay deadpan and strictly professional. “Fill this out, please.”
Isaiah didn’t even bother looking up at first.
His large, scarred hands took their sweet time unbuckling his helmet. He pulled it off, revealing a sharply angled, obscenely handsome face slick with sweat.
His chest heaved with heavy breaths, dark wet curls plastered to his forehead. Slowly, his eyes—as cold and blue as a Siberian tundra—dragged up my body until they locked dead onto my face.
Then, he reached out with a calloused hand and snatched the paper from my grip.
Right in front of the entire team, he tore the form cleanly in half and dropped the pieces at my feet like absolute garbage.
“Your uniforms are a fucking joke.” Isaiah’s voice was a low, gravelly rumble that instantly killed the chatter in the locker area.
He continued, his tone freezing cold. “That skirt looks like a scrap of rag. Are you here to dance, or are you trying to sell something else? It’s a massive distraction for my team.”
A few nasty snickers rippled through the surrounding players.
“And another thing,” he said, standing up. Fully decked out in his massive shoulder pads and gear, his monstrous frame towered over me like a mountain, blocking out the harsh overhead lights.
“Keep your cheap pink flyers in check. My locker room is littered with this trash. Go to my private locker room right now and clean it up.”
I stared at him, utterly stunned. He was picking a fight on purpose!
But in a split second, every pair of eyes in the room was drilling into me.
Goosebumps broke out across my skin, and hot tears threatened to spill over my lashes.
I bit down hard on my lower lip, spun on my heel, and practically bolted toward the captain’s private locker room at the end of the hall, chased by the sound of their low, mocking laughter.
The private locker room was dead silent, bathed in the harsh, clinical glare of fluorescent lights.
The floor really was a total mess—cheerleading posters and flyers that Isaiah had clearly ripped off the walls and stomped into shredded pieces.
“Bastard... total fucking control freak...” I crouched on the freezing concrete floor, angrily picking up the torn scraps of paper as my tears finally spilled over, splashing onto the back of my hand.
A sharp, heavy metallic snap echoed behind me.
It was the sound of the thick iron door slamming shut—and the deadbolt sliding firmly into place.
I jumped, spinning around to my feet.
Isaiah was standing right in front of the door.
Still dripping with cold sweat, the frost of the rink clinging to his massive gear, he took a slow, deliberate step toward me.
He moved like a panther stalking its territory in the dead of night, his blue eyes flashing with a raw, terrifying level of pure possessiveness.
“Who are you cursing at?” he rasped. His voice was a deep, guttural growl that vibrated straight from his broad chest.
“Get out! Isaiah—”
I didn’t even get to finish his name before he closed the distance in a single, fluid stride.
His massive frame radiated a scorching, dangerous heat as he violently pinned me against the cold metal lockers.
My spine slammed into the steel with a deafening crash.
“Tracy.”
He slammed a heavy hand onto the locker right next to my head. His hot, ragged breath—smelling of mint, frost, and primal sweat—brushed dangerously against my cheek and the sensitive shell of my ear. “Don’t ever wear something like this in front of other men. Those bastards couldn’t tear their eyes off your ass, and you were actually smiling at them?”
