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CHAPTER ONE

MIA

Two seconds.

That was all the White Rangers had left to lose the championship. Yes, lose. There was no way they were scoring now except by fucking miracle.

I tightened my grip on my pen as Scott Dylan took possession of the puck.

Of course it had to be him.

The captain. The team's golden boy. The man who had spent the entire game making my job unnecessarily difficult.

And now he had two seconds to save us from a championship loss.

The opposing team closed in.

Scott passed the puck, skillfully dodging them.

One of his teammates caught the pass and sent the puck straight back to him. Scott was already moving toward the net.

One second left.

The defenseman lunged at him, desperate to block him.

Scott looked at both sides in search of an opening.

Rot was completely open to the left, practically begging for the pass.

I almost yelled at Scott to pass.

Instead, he drew his stick back.

“Don't you dare.”

Scott shot.

Shit! What was the fool doing?!

The buzzer sounded, and for a moment, the entire arena went quiet. I stopped breathing. The puck seemed to hang in the air.

Then the puck slammed into the net.

The arena exploded. I shot to my feet with everyone else as the White Rangers rushed onto the ice.

We had fucking won! Oh my God. I couldn't believe it.

Scott disappeared beneath a pile of teammates. I stared down at the headline I'd written twenty minutes ago in annoyance.

WHITE RANGERS SUFFER CHAMPIONSHIP DEFEAT. I drew a thick line through it. Then I wrote beneath it.

WHITE RANGERS STEAL CHAMPIONSHIP IN FINAL SECOND.

Better. I looked back at the ice. I guess I hadn't lost the bet after all. Two thousand dollars richer. I could already think of at least five ways to spend it, and none of them involved buying Scott Dylan a congratulatory drink.

Scott had escaped his teammates and was standing near the boards, breathing heavily. His hair was damp with sweat, his jersey clinging to his shoulders. I hated that I noticed. I hated even more that, for one stupid second, I understood exactly why half the girls in school were obsessed with him.

Then his eyes found mine.

His smile disappeared. Mine did too, almost at the same time.

Great. The fool had seen me.

Scott Dylan had one particular talent besides hockey.

He hated my interviews. Mostly because, unlike other journalists and reporters, I didn't make him out to be some golden boy, larger-than-life hero.

I closed my notebook. Time to ruin his night again.

*******

“God, he's hot.” Stacey grinned, practically drooling as she watched Scott.

I wrinkled my nose. I didn't understand what the entire school saw in him. He was a reckless prick with an ego the size of the arena, and for the life of him, he couldn't take criticism. No matter how accurate said criticism was. I would know.

“You say that about every guy who can skate.”

“Not every guy.” She pointed at Scott. “Just the ones who look like that.”

“Then you're going to have to find another hobby.”

“Why? You're clearly not using your eyes properly.”

“Alright, boys. Mia's here for the post-game photos and interviews. Behave yourselves.” Coach Disick warned, his perpetual frown still in place as if they hadn't just won the state championship.

“You need to introduce me to him.” Stacey whispered in my ears.

“Only if you do a good job, little assistant.” I patted her head. She glared up at me good-naturedly.

"Alright, one after the other. Come over to the center of the rink. It's going to be both a video and a written interview, so try not to look too constipated.” My eyes landed on Scott; he was staring at me with irritation in his eyes.

Rot Berlin was first. He was a good sport as usual. Sweet, even though he was covered in more tattoos than a cathedral was of the saints.

It was finally Scott's turn. He walked up to the interview ground on the rink with that arrogant stride that made the girls drool. Stacy was doing that right now.

I rolled my eyes.

“Alright, Captain. Tell us how you're feeling after that game.”

“Great.” He shrugged. “There was no way we were not going to win when I was there."

The arrogance!

“But you almost lost the game, and I seem to recall two other games you were present at and lost.”

His jaw ticked. I smiled.

“Is she allowed to ask these questions, Coach?”

Coach Disick didn't even look up from his clipboard. “She's a journalist, Dylan. You're supposed to answer.”

Scott's eyes returned to me. “Fine.”

I smiled. “Good. Let's try that again.” I lifted my recorder. “Why were you so confident you could win when your team was down by one with two seconds left?”

His eyes narrowed. “Because I knew I'd score.”

“That's confidence.” I tilted my head.

“Or arrogance?”

Someone behind the camera snorted. I

"Bitch," Scott whispered under his breath. I all but ignored him.

“It's perseverance.”

“One of your teammates was wide open. You could have passed to him and guaranteed the shot. Instead, you took it yourself with one second left. Was that confidence, Scott, or did you just need to be the hero?”

His jaw tightened.

For the first time, the amusement disappeared from his face.

“I scored, didn't I?”

“That's not an answer.”

“It is when you're holding the championship trophy.”

“Mia!” Reid, my older brother, called from behind me, his eyes narrowing as he limped toward us.

He was still wearing his jersey even though he had been benched after taking a nasty hit earlier in the game, and the limp he'd left the rink with had me more worried than I wanted to admit. Apparently, sitting on the bench hadn't stopped him from enjoying himself.

“Stop messing with him,” he said, fighting back a grin.

“I'm just asking standard questions, big bro.”

“Uh-huh.” He gave me a look that clearly said he knew exactly what I was doing.

“Thanks, bestie,” Scott muttered, glaring at me.

I raised an eyebrow. “Bestie? What are you two, sorority sisters?”

The entire team burst out laughing.

Scott's expression darkened.

“Can I go now?” he asked, clearly done with me.

I shrugged. “Fine. You're free to leave, Captain.”

The rest of the interview went smoothly. The rest of the guys were a good sport.

Some of them even flirted with Stacey and me occasionally.

When we were finally done, we packed up our equipment.

Reid was already long gone. He had a doctor's appointment he couldn't afford to miss.

I was about to leave when my phone buzzed.

It was Reid.

Get my tablet from my locker before you leave. Please.

I sighed, and I wrinkled my nose. I hated going to the boys' locker.

It always stinks.

Of course.

I told Stacey to go without me and made my way toward the boys' locker room. I hated going in there. It always smelled like sweat, wet towels, and whatever questionable things teenage boys thought counted as deodorant.

I found Reid's locker, grabbed his tablet, and turned toward the exit.

Then I stopped.

Scott stepped out of the coach's office.

He looked pissed.

Not his usual irritated-with-Mia expression.

This was different.

His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid, and there was a vein pulsing at his temple.

My journalist instincts immediately kicked in.

I should have walked away.

Instead, I walked straight toward him.

“What happened?”

His head snapped toward me.

“What are you doing here?”

“Picking up my brother's tablet.” I lifted it slightly. “But that's not important right now. Why do you look like someone just told you your dog got shot?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Can you not?”

“Probably not.”

He stared at me for several seconds.

Then he sighed and dragged a hand through his damp hair.

“I need a favor.”

I almost laughed.

“You?”

“Yes, me.”

“Interesting. Because I'm pretty sure the last thing you need is a favor from me.”

“Mia.”

“No.”

“You don't even know what I'm going to ask.”

“I don't need to.”

I turned toward the door.

“Mia, wait.”

I stopped but didn't turn around.

“If this is about another interview, you can forget it.”

“It's not.”

“Then what is it?”

There was a long silence behind me.

When I finally turned around, Scott wasn't looking at me with his usual irritation.

He looked almost... desperate.

That got my attention.

“What happened?”

He exhaled slowly.

“I need you to do something for me.”

I folded my arms across my chest.

“I'm listening.”

He hesitated for so long that I almost told him to forget it.

His gaze dropped to the floor for a second before returning to mine. “I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

I stared at him.

For a second, I honestly wondered if I'd misheard him.

Then I laughed.

“I'm sorry. You want me to do what?”

“My fake girlfriend.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“Are you concussed?”

“No.”

“Did you hit your head during the game?”

“No.”

“Then you've officially lost your mind.”

His jaw tightened.

“Believe me, I don't want this either.”

“Good. Because we're finally agreeing on something.”

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“Coach thinks it'll solve the problem.”

I frowned.

“What problem?”

Scott's expression changed.

For the first time since I'd known him, he looked genuinely worried.

“There's a problem,” he said quietly.

My reporter instincts immediately came alive.

“What kind of problem?”

He glanced toward the coach's office.

“The kind that could ruin everything.”

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“I'm not.”

“Scott, there are literally dozens of girls who would sell their souls for the chance to pretend to date you.”

“I know.”

“Then ask one of them.”

“I can't.”

I stopped laughing.

“Why?”

His expression hardened.

“Because it has to be you.”

That wiped the smile off my face.

“Why me?”

“Because nobody would believe I'm actually dating one of those girls. Everyone knows they'd do anything for the attention.”

“And nobody thinks I'd want your attention?”

“Exactly.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Was that supposed to be an insult?”

“No. It was the truth.”

“Well, congratulations. You've finally said something intelligent.”

He ignored that.

“I need this to look real, Mia. And you hate me enough that nobody will think you're doing it because you want something from me.”

I stared at him.

Unfortunately, that made sense.

“And how long would this little performance last?”

“Until the end of the semester.”

I laughed again, but this time there was no humor in it.

“You've officially lost your mind.”

“Maybe.”

His eyes met mine.

“But you're the only person I can trust to do this.”

I stared at him.

Scott Dylan.

The captain of the White Rangers.

The boy I'd spent the entire season arguing with.

And apparently, the one man who had just decided I was the perfect person to pretend to date him.

Well.

I had come to the locker room looking for a tablet.

Instead, I'd just stumbled onto the biggest story of my life.

I should have walked away.

Instead, the journalist in me asked the one question I knew I shouldn't.

“What exactly are you hiding?”