Chapter 002—Puck, Meet Disaster.

~Sebastian Ryder~

I almost killed someone tonight.

That's the only thing replaying in my head as I kill the engine and swing my leg off my motorcycle.

I fucking almost killed someone tonight.

One second, I'm speeding through campus traffic, trying to clear my head after the world's dumbest team meeting.

The next, a girl launches herself into the middle of the damn road like she's got a death wish.

I rip off my helmet and storm toward her, adrenaline still pumping through my veins.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” I snap.

The girl blinks up at me from the pavement, looking like she's still trying to process what just happened. And suddenly, my anger falters.

She's lying against the concrete, staring at me with a pair of enormous blue eyes. Her blonde hair is tied in a messy bun, although it's practically falling apart now that the clip holding it together has landed somewhere in the middle of the road.

Her oversized pink cardigan hangs loosely off one shoulder, and despite the circumstances, I manage to register one very inconvenient detail.

She's cute.

My brain short-circuits for exactly half a second before I catch myself.

Nope. Absolutely not, because the girl is also crying. Actually crying, like someone ripped her heart out and stomped on it.

Silent tears slide down her flushed cheeks while she stares at the ground like she wants it to swallow her whole.

Shit.

I must've hit her harder than I thought.

“You hurt?” I ask, stepping closer.

She immediately tries to push herself up, but the moment she puts weight on her ankle, she winces and nearly collapses again.

I catch her before she hits the pavement, and Christ, she's warm. Her tiny hands clutch the front of my hoodie as she struggles to steady herself against my chest.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Her eyes slowly travel up to my face, and she freezes, probably because she just realizes she's practically pressed against a six-foot-three stranger in the middle of the road.

“You okay?” I ask again, this time lowering my voice.

She nods too quickly, which obviously means no.

“I'm fine.”

Bullshit.

“You almost got flattened by my bike.”

“I said I'm fine.” Her voice comes out shaky and embarrassed, like she hates having to rely on anyone for help.

Interesting.

Most girls throw themselves at me.

This one looks horrified to even be perceived.

I glance down at her ankle and notice it's already beginning to swell.

“Can you walk?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies immediately.

She takes one step and almost falls flat on her face. I catch her again, letting out an irritated breath as she grabs my hoodie for support.

I do not have time for this. I already have enough problems.

Suspension. Transfer. A psychotic coach.

A team full of pissed-off players because one stupid fight got all of us relocated to Northbridge University.

I don't need another complication, especially not a cute one with a swollen ankle.

“Look,” I mutter, “you should probably get that ankle checked out.”

She narrows her eyes. “I can't afford a hospital.”

That shuts me up.

Right. College.

Sometimes I forget not everybody on campus walks around with rich parents and professional-athlete money.

“You know what?” She throws her hands up, struggling to balance on one foot. “Forget it.”

I frown. “Forget what?”

She looks at me like I've personally offended her entire bloodline. “You don't have to pretend you care.”

Sweet baby Jesus.

She basically just called me a douchebag.

“Okay, I feel like we skipped several chapters here,” I say slowly.

“No, we didn't.” Her voice rises with irritation. “You hit me, and now you're pretending to care so you don't feel guilty for being an asshole.”

What?

“You misundersto—”

“No, I didn't!” she snaps, cutting me off. “You're some psychotic biker who just wants this problem to disappear.”

Psychotic?

Okay, maybe she has a point.

I do want this problem to disappear. Mostly because of the suspension, the transfer, and the fact that Coach would absolutely lose his mind if this somehow got back to him.

Best player or not.

“Look, I get that I handled this badly, alright?” I rub the back of my neck. “Let's compromise. Ask me for anything. Money, a favor... a date?”

Her entire face twists in horror.

“...A date?”

I nod confidently. “Yeah, a date. I understand I'm ridiculously attractive and all, but you should really consider the option.” I wink, crossing my arms. “Who knows? We might even have some spicy moments later.”

She stares at me like I've just admitted to eating glue recreationally.

And weirdly, that makes me uncomfortable.

Most girls would have jumped at the opportunity before I even finished the sentence. This girl looks ready to set me on fire instead.

“Oh my God!” She throws her hands into the air. “You are actually unbelievable.”

I blink. “What?”

“You really are unbelievable,” she repeats, looking genuinely appalled.

For once in my life, I'm actually at a loss for words.

“You know what?” she grits out. “Go to hell.”

“What?!” I uncross my arms immediately.

“You heard me.” She clenches her jaw. “Go. To. Hell.”

Okay, maybe hitting her was technically my fault, but she literally ran into the road without looking.

“Listen here, princess. I might've hit you, but I'm not taking all the blame for this.”

“Well, it is your fault!”

“My fault?”

“Yes!” She jabs a finger into my chest.

It barely registers. Actually, I think she hurts herself more because she immediately shakes her hand afterward.

I bite back a grin.

Twelve years of hockey and training on ice have made me pretty damn solid.

“Argh!” She throws her head back in frustration. “Why do I even bother? You men are all the same.”

Wow.

How did we go from accidental road rage to a full-blown TED Talk about male failure?

I raise an eyebrow. “The same?”

“Yes!” she huffs. “The. Same. Mean and cruel and—and obsessed with humiliating people for fun!”

I stare at her, trying to figure out where the hell all this is coming from.

“Okay.” I drag a hand down my face. “I think this is a classic case of displaced aggression. You're clearly projecting your issues onto a stranger.”

“Well, maybe strangers shouldn't suck so much!”

I bark out a laugh, which apparently pisses her off even more.

“Oh my God,” she mutters furiously. “You're just like him.”

My laughter dies. “Like who?”

Her eyes flicker away, and she takes a small step back. “Nobody.”

“Nobody,” I repeat slowly, nodding. “Yeah. I see what this is.”

“What?” She glares at me.

“A guy dumped your ass, and now you're channeling all that rage toward me.”

“That's not true,” she says immediately.

Which only means—

It's absolutely true.

“Oh my gosh.” I point at her, laughing. “You really are projecting your issues onto me.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I'm not!”

“Yes.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “You. Are.”

We're suddenly standing way too close, close enough for me to notice the tiny snowflakes caught in her lashes and the way her blue eyes seem even brighter under the streetlights.

For a second, she looks almost innocent. Then her expression changes, and before I can figure out what she's planning, her tiny fist grabs the front of my hoodie.

“What?” I mutter, caught off guard. “You gonna hit me now?”

I'm acting calm, but if she ripped open my chest right now, my heart would sound like teenage girls screaming at a boy band concert.

And then—

It happens.

She rises onto her toes and... kisses me.

Jesusssssss Christ.

Her lips crash against mine with enough force to short-circuit my brain. My hands hover uselessly at my sides while her mouth presses against mine like she's declaring war.

And somehow, despite every sensible thought in my head screaming at me to push her away, I kiss her back for half a second before my brain finally catches up.

She shoves away from me abruptly, and we both stand there breathing hard. Her eyes are wide, almost as if she's just realized what she's done.

Neither can I.

The street falls strangely quiet around us as snowflakes drift between our bodies. I stare at her, dumbfounded, waiting for some explanation, an apology, anything that might help me understand what the hell just happened.

But she says nothing.

And the longer I look at her, the more something ugly begins to settle in my chest.

RAGEEEEE.

I let out a short, bitter chuckle and shake my head.

Unbelievable.

For a moment, I'd actually thought she was different. I thought she was one of those rare girls who could look at me without immediately seeing a hockey captain, a pretty face, or an opportunity to get into my pants.

I'd thought she treated me like an ordinary person.

Apparently, I was wrong. She's just another one of them.

“Apologize,” I demand, my voice dropping as I take a step toward her.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

“You heard me. Apologize.”

She looks genuinely dumbfounded, but instead of backing down, she rises onto her tiny toes, lifts her chin, and stares straight into my eyes.

“No.”

I clench my jaw. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” She folds her arms, looking far too pleased with herself. “Take it as payback for hitting me with your bike.”

For a second, I simply stare at her.

Then I laugh, not because anything about this is funny, but because I cannot believe how stupid I've been.

I was actually standing here feeling sorry for her, worried about her ankle and wondering if I'd hurt her badly. Meanwhile, she'd just decided to use my mouth as some kind of revenge.

I take a step toward her, and she instinctively moves backward.

There's something satisfying about watching that confidence finally slip from her face, especially after she's spent the last few minutes treating me like some idiot she can push around.

“You think you can just do whatever you want and walk away?” I ask, my voice dangerously low.

She takes another step back, clutching the strap of her bag. “Stay away from me.”

I ignore her and reach for the bag.

“Hey!” She grabs the other strap. “What are you doing?”

“Let's see who I'm dealing with.”

“Give that back!”

I yank the bag out of her hands before she can stop me and unzip it. She protests behind me, demanding that I return her things, but I barely pay attention as I rummage through the contents.

A notebook, a couple of pens, a wallet, some lip balm, and finally, a student ID.

I pull it out and glance at the photograph before reading the name printed beneath it.

Chloe Caldwell.

I repeat the name silently, letting it settle in my head before turning around.

“Chloe Caldwell,” I say slowly, making sure she hears every syllable.

Her fingers tighten around the strap of her cardigan.

I take another step toward her, watching as she instinctively retreats.

“Listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once. Stay the hell away from me. Don't approach me, don't speak to me, and don't ever try something like that again.”

She swallows.

I hold her gaze for another second before lowering my voice.

“Because the next time you cross my path, I won't be nearly as patient. And trust me, princess, you don't want to find out what happens when I lose my temper.”

Her eyes widen, and she takes another unsteady step backward.

I toss her bag toward her. She catches it clumsily, nearly losing her balance as her injured ankle gives way.

“Have a nice life, Chloe Caldwell. May we never meet again.”

I don't wait for her response.

I turn around, walk back to my motorcycle, and pull on my helmet, twisting the throttle, letting the engine roar beneath me as I speed off.

Good riddance, Chloe Caldwell.

I've met plenty of girls who wanted my attention, but I've never met one who could get under my skin this badly.

And I swear, if I ever see her again, I'll make sure she regrets it.