Chapter 1

Rule number one for surviving Frostbridge University on a full scholarship was simple: keep my head down, keep my GPA at 4.0, avoid the rich kids, and stay away from the campus gods and goddesses.

So far, I was doing pretty well. I hadn't gotten into any trouble, hadn't missed a single assignment, and had managed to make it through most of my first week without doing anything embarrassing. Then I needed to use the bathroom.

My shoulder was already aching from carrying three thick textbooks in my canvas tote, while my right hand was wrapped around an extra-large iced vanilla latte that I desperately needed after getting barely four hours of sleep.

All I had to do was find the humanities building, use the bathroom, and get to my 9:00 a.m. Microeconomics lecture before the professor started taking attendance. It shouldn't have been difficult, but Frostbridge University was enormous, and whoever designed the campus clearly hadn't considered students who had absolutely no sense of direction.

There were gothic buildings everywhere, glass walkways connecting places that didn't seem to need connecting, and signs that somehow made me more confused every time I looked at them.

I took what I thought was a shortcut past the main quad, followed a sign pointing toward student facilities, and somehow ended up inside the sport wing. I realized I'd made a wrong turn when the carpet disappeared beneath my sneakers and the hallway opened into a much larger space filled with polished floors, trophy cases, and framed pictures of hockey players.

I looked around, hoping I'd somehow find a restroom nearby, when a guy in a maroon varsity jacket jogged past me with a duffel bag hanging from one shoulder.

"Looking for something, freshie?"

I glanced at him but didn't bother answering. I had bigger problems than some random athlete trying to be funny. I checked my phone and saw 8:50 a.m., which made my stomach drop. I hurried farther down the hallway, looking for a restroom sign, but there was nothing. Just locked offices, weight rooms, equipment storage, and more pictures of hockey teams celebrating championships I had absolutely no interest in memorizing.

At the end of the hallway, I spotted a large mahogany door that was slightly open. Finally, I thought, and pushed it open without knocking.

"Excuse me, is this—"

The rest of the sentence disappeared when I realized it wasn't a bathroom at all. It was some kind of private coaches' lounge, and unfortunately, it wasn't empty. A tall guy with broad shoulders and dark, messy hair was leaning against the edge of a heavy wooden desk while a gorgeous blonde stood between his thighs, her hands buried in his hair as she kissed him. Her denim skirt had ridden high on her thighs, and his large hand was spread across the small of her back, holding her close while his mouth moved along the side of her throat.

I stood there staring for far longer than I should have. The room was filled with the sound of their hurried breathing, the rustle of clothing, and the occasional soft gasp from the blonde. I knew I should leave, and I knew it immediately, but my body apparently forgot how doors worked. Then the guy finally turned his head, and I recognized him.

Ryder Cole.

And he was fucking a girl in the coaches lounge!

Everyone at Frostbridge knew who he was. He was the university's star hockey captain, the guy whose face appeared on the sports pages whenever the team won, and the same guy whose shirtless pictures after games had been all over campus social media. I'd looked at a few of those pictures myself before, although I wasn't about to admit that to anyone. Seeing him in person was different, though. His hair was messy, his breathing was heavy, and he looked nothing like the perfectly posed athlete from those photographs. He looked even more handsome in person and somehow that made him even more distracting.

The blonde was the first one to notice me. Her eyes widened as she looked toward the doorway, and she immediately stepped back, pulling her skirt down. Ryder didn't seem embarrassed at all. He simply lifted his head, ran his eyes over me, and stopped when he reached the coffee in my hand. Then he looked back at my face, and a slow smirk appeared on his lips.

"You like to watch, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice low and rough. "Or are you gonna knock next time?"

My face burned so badly I was sure he could see it. "I—wrong room."

That was all I managed before I grabbed the door and pulled it shut. I hurried down the hallway as fast as I could without actually running, my tote bag bouncing against my side while I tried to pretend I hadn't just walked in on Ryder Cole making out with a girl. The worst part was that I had stood there long enough for him to catch me staring, and my stupid brain had still found time to notice his shoulders and abs, his voice, and the way had looked at me.

I pushed through the glass doors of the sport building and finally stopped outside, taking a deep breath before checking my phone again.

8:58 a.m. "Fuck." I started across the courtyard, clutching my coffee in one hand while scrolling through the campus map with the other.

My scholarship was the only reason I could afford Frostbridge, and keeping it meant keeping my grades up. I couldn't afford distractions, especially not the kind that came in the form of a six-foot-something hockey captain with a smug smile and a habit of making me forget what I was supposed to be doing.

I was so busy staring at my phone that I didn't notice someone coming through the heavy oak doors of the academic building ahead of me. I kept walking until I crashed straight into him.

The impact knocked the breath out of me, and my coffee flew out of my hand. The plastic lid popped off, sending a wave of lukewarm espresso and milk across a white athletic shirt. I stared at the dark maroon Frostbridge Hockey crest, then at the large number ten underneath it, and felt my stomach drop.

Slowly, I looked up.

Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Hazel eyes.

Ryder.

Again.

He looked down at his ruined shirt before lifting his eyes to mine. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

"I'm so sorry." I immediately dropped my tote bag and started digging through my coat pocket for the napkins I had shoved inside after breakfast.

"I was running late. I wasn't looking where I was going. I swear I didn't mean to."

I stepped closer and pressed the napkins against the stain, desperately trying to wipe away the coffee before it soaked deeper into the fabric. Ryder's hand closed around my wrist, stopping me.

"Stop."

I looked up at him.

"You think a dirty paper towel is going to fix a custom jersey?"

The embarrassment I was feeling quickly turned into irritation. "I said I was sorry."

By then, other students were already slowing down around us. I heard someone whisper Ryder's name, followed by another voice asking who I was, and then I noticed a few phones being lifted in our direction. Of course. Because apparently spilling coffee on Ryder Cole wasn't humiliating enough. Now half the hallway wanted a video of it.

Ryder didn't seem bothered by the attention. He kept looking at me, his fingers still wrapped around my wrist.

"You ran away like a scared rabbit five minutes ago," he said, lowering his voice. "Now you're throwing yourself at my chest."

"I was trying to clean your shirt."

"Sure you were."

I stared at him. "You are unbelievably arrogant."

Something changed in his expression, just for a second. He looked surprised, as if he wasn't used to hearing that from people. I tugged against his hand.

"Let go."

He didn't move.

"Ryder."

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "You know my name."

"Everyone knows your name."

"Interesting."

I could feel the heat crawling up my neck, but I refused to look away. "I don't give a damn who you are or what team you captain. Let me go."

For a few seconds, we just stared at each other while the people around us continued whispering. Then his fingers finally loosened, and I pulled my wrist away immediately. He didn't apologize. Instead, he looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite understand, like he was suddenly more interested in me than he had been a minute ago.

His gaze shifted toward the clock above the entrance.

"Class is starting, Ava."

I stopped breathing for a second. How did the hell did know my name?

Before I could ask, Ryder reached for the bottom of his stained jersey and pulled it over his head in one smooth movement. His bare chest was suddenly right there in front of me, and I hated how quickly my eyes noticed the muscles across his shoulders and stomach before I forced myself to look away.

He tossed the ruined jersey over one shoulder and looked at me again. "Try not to run into anyone else, Ava."

Then he walked away.

I stood there for a moment, watching him disappear around the corner, my wrist still tingling where his fingers had been and my coffee dripping from the cup in my hand. I couldn't decide what bothered me more: the fact that I'd already embarrassed myself twice in front of Ryder Cole, or the fact that he somehow knew my name when I had never spoken to him before today.

I finally grabbed my tote bag and checked my phone. 9:01 a.m.

I was officially late.

I started toward my lecture hall, already thinking about the professor's reaction, my scholarship, and the amount of explaining I'd probably have to do if I got called out for being late. I'd spent years working for the chance to attend Frostbridge, and I wasn't about to let one stupid morning ruin everything for me.

Unfortunately, I had a feeling my morning wasn't the problem.

Ryder Cole was.

And judging by the way he looked at me before walking away, I had a feeling this wasn't going to be the last time our paths crossed.