Chapter 5

“He’s looking at you again!”

A girl sitting two seats down from me in the front row grabbed her friend’s arm so tightly that her knuckles turned white. “Oh my God, Ryder is literally staring right at you!”

“No, he’s not,” her friend gasped, frantically fluffing her bleached blonde hair and tugging at her low-cut top. “Is my lipstick smeared? Tell me I look cute!”

I rolled my eyes, pressing my lips together as I clutched my canvas tote bag against my chest. Idiots. They actually thought he was looking at them. The truth was far worse. Ryder’s hazel eyes were not wandering across the front row. They were fixed on mine, and even with the thick plexiglass barrier between us, I could feel his stare. The arena was freezing, yet my skin felt strangely warm under his attention.

I forced myself to look away, focusing on my worn canvas sneakers instead. It means nothing, I reminded myself. It is just a game to him. He looks at every girl on this campus like that. It is what arrogant, entitled jocks do.

Down on the ice, the buzzer sounded, marking the end of the game, and the crowd went wild. White and maroon confetti burst from the rafters, fluttering over the rink as the players gathered at center ice. Sticks clattered against the boards, and the scoreboard flashed bright red numbers: FROSTBRIDGE: 4 | EASTERN: 3.

Amid the celebration, the gate to the rink swung open, allowing family members, reporters, and selected VIP students onto the ice level. Before the team could even make it to the locker room tunnel, a gorgeous brunette wearing a skimpy maroon crop top and a white pleated skirt hurried across the rubber mats toward Ryder. She did not hesitate. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him right on the mouth, making a whole production of it.

Several guys on the team cheered.

I scoffed and turned my face away. There it is. Classic Ryder Cole. One girl on Tuesday, another on Wednesday, and a whole fan club on Friday.

I expected him to pull the brunette closer and wrap his hands around her waist, just as he had done with the blonde in the coaches’ office on my first day. Instead, Ryder caught her wrists and firmly removed her arms from his neck before pushing her away. He did not return the kiss or even bother to look at her as she stumbled backward, embarrassment spreading across her face.

What surprised me most was where he looked next.

His eyes went straight back to me.

He ignored his teammates as they slapped him on the back and congratulated him. After stepping over a fallen hockey stick, he started walking toward the glass barrier where I stood, his chest rising and falling beneath his sweat-soaked jersey and his dark hair sticking to his forehead.

My heart gave an unexpected jump. Oh no. Absolutely not.

Before he could reach the barrier, a crowd of female fans rushed toward him from the side, blocking his path. “Ryder! Ryder, sign my jersey, please!” one girl shouted.

“Ryder, take a picture with me!”

“Sign my shirt!” another shrieked, shoving a thick permanent marker into his gloved hand. Then she pulled up the front of her crop top, exposing her cleavage. “Sign my boobs, Ryder! Please! I will never wash it!”

“Shameless,” I muttered, feeling disgust settle in my stomach.

Watching half a dozen girls throw themselves at him as though he were some kind of god was ridiculous. They were practically fighting for his attention, and he had not even needed to ask for it. I could not understand what was so special about him that made otherwise sensible girls behave like this.

I pulled my tote bag higher onto my shoulder and checked my phone. 10:15 p.m.

I had a microeconomics paper due on Monday, two chapters of political science reading, a calculus problem set, and an essay outline for my humanities seminar. Four assignments were waiting for me in my dorm room, yet here I was, standing in a freezing hockey arena watching Ryder Cole enjoy his victory while a crowd of girls practically fought over him.

I had wasted enough of my evening. I did not want to spend another minute watching his ridiculous victory parade.

Turning away from the rink, I pushed through the crowd in the aisle, ignoring the elbows bumping into me and the drinks sloshing from people's cups. I kept walking until I reached the concourse, then shoved through the heavy double doors and stepped outside into the cool night air.

The breeze brushed against my flushed face, but it did little to settle the strange feeling I had been carrying since Ryder looked at me.

Why was he looking at me?

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment and continued down the dimly lit pavement toward the freshman dorms. It does not matter. He is a liar, a player, and an egomaniac who thinks the world revolves around his hockey stick.

I was going back to my dorm, finishing my assignments, getting a full eight hours of sleep, and staying as far away from Ryder Cole as possible for the rest of the semester.