The Hockey Player’s Dirty Bet

Sasha’s Pov

The bitter wind outside the West Wolves training facility cut right through my heavy jacket, but it was nothing compared to the chill in my stomach as I pushed open the heavy glass doors.

I didn't want to be here.

Ten years ago, the hockey world had spat my family out after a devastating scandal stripped my father of his career and left us counting pennies just to survive. Since then, I had built my life around a strict, unbreakable rule: keep your camera steady, keep your mouth shut, and stay as far away from professional hockey players as humanly possible. They were loud, dripping with unearned wealth, and entirely full of themselves.

Yet, here I was, clutching my camera bag like a shield, walking straight into the lion's den to photograph the most arrogant team in the league.

"Just take the photos, collect your paycheck, and leave," I muttered to myself, marching across the polished concrete floor toward the rink.

I found a quiet corner near the edge of the ice, unzipped my bag, and began pulling out my gear with practiced speed. I mounted my long-focus lens, checked the battery levels, and forced myself to breathe evenly.

If I could just keep my head down, I would be out of this frozen nightmare in under an hour.

"You know, for a professional photographer, you look like you are about to walk into a firing squad."

The deep, smooth voice hit me right behind my right ear, startling me so badly I nearly dropped my telephoto lens onto the concrete.

I spun around, my heart pounding heavily.

Standing right there was Kellan West. The captain. The golden boy. He wore his team jersey loosely over his broad shoulders, his messy brown hair damp from the ice, and a look of absolute amusement dancing in his bright blue eyes. He leaned casually against a support beam, looking entirely too comfortable and far too handsome for someone I was legally required to despise.

"I am not about to walk into a firing squad," I snapped, my voice sharp enough to cut glass as I crossed my arms over my chest. "Though talking to you is making me seriously reconsider. The name is Sasha.”

Kellan raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing bigger. "Sasha. Got it. You must be the new photographer my manager talked about. Are you ready to take the best pictures of your life?"

I rolled my eyes. "I just need you and your team to stand on the ice and look at the camera. It is not that hard. If you can stop showing off for two seconds, we might actually finish today."

Kellan let out a short laugh, like he could not believe what he was hearing. Nobody ever talked to him that way. "Wow. You really have some fire in you, don't you? Most people walk in here and just stare at me. You look like you want to throw me out the window."

"If you keep talking, I might just try," I snapped back, though my heart did a weird little flip in my chest.

He was too close. I could smell his cologne, something clean and spicy that smelled way too good for a guy I was supposed to hate. He stepped closer, looking down at me since he was a lot taller than I was.

"You are funny, Sasha. I like that," Kellan said, his voice dropping lower, full of that annoying charm that worked on every other girl in the city.

"Tell you what. After you finish taking all your boring pictures of us today, how about I take you out for dinner? We can get to know each other."

I stared right into his bright blue eyes and did not blink. "No thank you."

His smile slipped for a second. Just a tiny second. "No? Just like that?"

"Just like that," I said, turning my back on him to check the settings on my camera.

"I do not date hockey players. Especially ones who think a pretty smile gets them whatever they want. Now, get on the ice. We are wasting daylight."

Behind me, I heard him let out a low whistle. "Alright, Sasha. You got me. Let us take some pictures."

The rest of the shoot was a total pain. Kellan made sure of it. Every time I tried to take a group photo, he would find a way to pop up right next to me or make a silly face just to ruin the shot.

When I yelled at him to stand still, he just flashed that stupid, gorgeous grin at my camera lens. My fingers gripped my camera tightly. I wanted to scream, but I also had to admit—even though I hated myself for it—that he looked really good through my lens. The way the arena lights hit his dark hair and his sharp jawline made every single photo look amazing, no matter how much I tried to mess it up.

When it was finally over, I packed up my bags as fast as I could. I threw my heavy strap over my shoulder and walked toward the exit doors, just wanting to get into my car and drive away.

"Hey! Wait up!"

I groaned and turned around. Kellan was jogging across the floor, still in his workout clothes, holding a water bottle. He stopped right in front of me, breathing a little hard.

"What do you want, Kellan?" I asked, my voice sharp. "The shoot is over. You survived, and so did I."

"I just wanted to say you are different from anyone else I have ever met," he said, looking at me with a weird kind of curiosity in his eyes.

"Most people pretend to like me just because of who I am. You look like you want to punch me in the face."

"That is because I do," I shot back. But my voice did not have as much bite as before.

He smiled softly, a real smile this time that did not look like he was playing a game. "Think about that dinner offer, Sasha. My treat."

"Not in a million years," I said, turning around and pushing open the heavy metal doors.

I walked out into the cool afternoon air, letting out a long breath I felt like I had been holding the whole time I was inside.

My car was parked at the end of the lot. I unlocked the doors, threw my camera bag into the passenger seat, and sank into the driver's seat.

"Phew," I whispered to myself, rubbing my temples. "Just a job. You only have to deal with him when you work. It is fine."

I started the engine and put the car in drive. I was safe. I had survived my first day with the most annoying hockey player on the planet. I told myself I would never have to worry about him outside of the rink.

My phone buzzed loudly in the cup holder.

I glanced down at it while waiting at a red light. It was a text message from my main boss at the photography agency.

My heart did a weird, heavy drop in my chest. I picked up the phone with shaking fingers and opened the message.

“Hey Sasha,” the text read. “Great job today with the team. Good news! The management loved your work so much that they just signed a special contract with us. You have been officially assigned as the personal photographer to follow Kellan West around everywhere and photograph him throughout the entire hockey season.”

I stared at the screen. The words blurred together.

Follow him? Everywhere? All season long?

My phone felt heavy in my hand. I looked out the windshield at the grey sky, my mind spinning completely out of control.

I had just spent one hour with Kellan West and I already wanted to pull my hair out. Now I was going to be stuck with him for months.