PUCKING THE BAD BOY CAPTAIN

Izzy

Dear Diary, I think I’m finally ready to stop being a virgin. I’ve been good my whole damn life, keeping my head down, chasing jobs that barely paid rent, and now this one thing, this one infuriating, stupidly hot guy has me twisted up so bad I can’t even think straight.

But I have to play it cool. Act tough. Because he’s an annoying piece of shit who probably hates me already, and I’m not about to let him know he’s under my skin.

Now let’s rewind a little, It all kicked off earlier. I was broke as hell, scraping by on freelance gigs that mostly involved shooting blurry pictures for sad little websites.

Then out of nowhere this email came through; Toronto Thunder needed a team photographer for the playoffs push. I had been applying for years and years and finally it happened. I said yes before I even read the fine print. First day on the job and I’m hauling my camera bag through the arena tunnels, heart hammering because this was supposed to be my break through.

I had studied this team like the palm of my hand. I spotted him right away. Riven Holt. Captain. Star forward. The guy everyone talked about like he was some kind of hockey god.

Tall, built like he could break someone in half without trying, dark hair messy from practice, jaw set like he was permanently pissed off. He was barking orders at some rookies near the bench, voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“New girl,” he called out when he noticed me standing there fiddling with my lens. “You the photographer? Let’s see what you got from warm-ups.”

I lifted my camera, trying to look professional even though my hands were sweaty. “Yeah, Isolde Moreau is the name. I sent over the files already….”

He cut me off, scrolling on his tablet with a scowl. “These angles are shit. I look like I’m skating hunched over like some rookie. Fix it or I’ll make sure you’re out on your ass before the first game.”

“Excuse me?” I snapped back before I could stop myself. My face heated up. “I was shooting from the side like they told me. If you didn’t want to look bad maybe don’t lean into every hit like you’re trying to break the boards.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. God, he smelled like sweet sweat and something expensive, and it made my stomach flip even while I wanted to smack him. “You think this is a joke? This team’s got eyes on us. Sponsors. Scouts. I need to look like a captain, not some sloppy asshole in bad lighting. Redo the set or pack your shit.”

“I’m not redoing anything until you stop acting like a diva,” I shot back, chin up even though my voice wobbled a little. “I know what I’m doing. Maybe try not glaring at the camera next time and you won’t look like you’re constipated on ice.”

One of the assistant coaches snorted behind us. Riven’s jaw tightened. “You got a mouth on you for someone who just walked in the door.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got an ego the size of this arena for someone who needs a newbie to make him look good,” I fired back. We stood there glaring, the air thick enough to choke on. Part of me wanted to storm off. The other part the stupid part kept noticing how his shoulders filled out that practice jersey, how his hands flexed like he was fighting the urge to grab my camera and smash it. Or maybe grab me.

He finally exhaled through his nose, like I was barely worth the effort. “Fine. Shoot the next drill. And don’t fuck it up.” Then he turned and skated off, barking at his teammates again.

I spent the rest of the session snapping pictures with my hands shaking, half from anger, half from something else I didn’t want to name. Every time he flew past, muscles working, that focused glare on his face, my stomach did this dumb little twist. Annoying piece of shit. Hot annoying piece of shit. By the time I wrapped up I was exhausted, camera bag digging into my shoulder, ready to collapse in my crappy apartment and eat cereal for dinner.

I texted Mom on the way home: Long day. Be back late. No reply. Whatever. I pushed open the door to our place and stopped dead. Empty. Like, echo-empty. No furniture in the living room, no dishes in the sink, just a couple boxes stacked by the wall and a note on the counter.

My heart dropped. “What the hell?”

Mom’s handwriting, rushed: Surprise, honey! Call me when you get this. Big changes!

I called her right away, phone pressed hard to my ear. “Mom? What is going on? Where’s all our stuff?”

“Oh, Isolde! Finally. I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.” She sounded way too cheerful, that fake-bright tone she used when she was nervous or hiding something huge. “I sold them. We’re moving, sweetie. I signed the papers yesterday. It’s official.”

“Moving? To where? I just started this job, I can’t….”

“Pack your clothes. A car’s coming for you in twenty minutes. We’re going to the Holt estate. My new husband Mr. Holt he’s excited to meet you. It’s going to be wonderful. Family bonding and all that.”

I laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “New husband? Mom, this is a joke, right? You met some new guy last and now you’re married? And Holt? Like, the Holt company guy? This sounds insane.”

“It’s real, baby. I didn’t want to say anything until it was done. He’s good to me. Rich, stable, loves hockey perfect. You’ll see. Just get in the car when it arrives. Love you!”

She hung up before I could yell. I stood there staring at the empty walls, my head spinning. This couldn’t be happening. I was twenty, not some kid who could just get shuffled into a stranger’s house. But the car showed up exactly when she said black, shiny, driver in a suit who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I threw my stuff in the back and climbed in, texting my girls in the Inner Circle group chat the whole ride.

Izzy: You guys are not gonna believe this shit. Mom got married. Again. To some rich dude now at least. I’m being kidnapped to his mansion right now.

Vesper: Wait what?? Details!!

Callie: Tell me you’re joking. Send pics when you get there.

Larkin: You okay?

I didn’t have answers. The car pulled up this massive driveway lined with trees, and the house mansion, whatever loomed like something out of a magazine I couldn’t afford. Lights on in half the windows, fancy cars parked out front. My stomach twisted tighter as I grabbed my bags and headed for the door.

Mom met me in the foyer, all smiles and hugs that felt too tight. “There she is! Come meet everyone. This is going to be great for you, Izzy. New opportunities, new family.”

“Yeah, sure,” I muttered, shrugging her off. “Where’s this husband of yours?”

Mr. Holt appeared from the hallway tall, silver at the temples, expensive watch glinting. He shook my hand firm, smiling like this was all normal, he actually looked hot damn. “Isolde. Welcome. We’re thrilled to have you here. Riven’s around somewhere. He’ll show you the studio space we set up for your photography.”

Riven. My brain short-circuited. No. No way.

Footsteps on the stairs. I looked up and there he was. Same messy hair, same broad shoulders, now in a plain black t-shirt and sweats like he’d just come from a workout. Our eyes locked. His face went from neutral to pissed in half a second.

“You,” he said, voice low and flat.

“Me,” I shot back, heart slamming against my ribs. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Mom blinked between us. “You two know each other?”

“Unfortunately,” Riven said at the same time I said, “Team photographer.”

Mr. Holt laughed, like this was delightful. “Small world! Riven, show your new stepsister to her room. And the darkroom we had it prepped this afternoon.”

“Stepsister,” Riven repeated, like the word tasted bad. He stared at me hard, arms crossed. “This is a joke.”

“Trust me, I’m not laughing either,” I snapped. My face burned. All that arguing at the arena, the way he’d gotten in my space, the stupid flutter I’d felt now he was family? My stepbrother? I wanted to crawl into a hole. Or maybe push him into one.

He grabbed one of my bags without asking, muscles flexing, and started up the stairs. “Come on. Before Dad starts planning family dinners or whatever.”

I followed, legs shaky. The hallway was long, doors everywhere. He pushed open one near the end. Big room, big bed, windows looking out over the backyard rink they apparently had. My own darkroom connected through another door counters, equipment, the works. It was nice. Too nice. I hated how much I wanted to stay.

“Happy now?” he asked, dropping the bag. He leaned against the doorframe, watching me. “Broke photographer lands in the mansion. Must be nice.”

“Don’t start,” I said, turning on him. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t even know about your dad until an hour ago. And you….you were a total dick at the arena today.”

“You were shooting me like shit,” he fired back, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. His voice dropped. “And now you’re living here? In my house?”

“Our house now, apparently.” I crossed my arms, mirroring him. My pulse was everywhere. He was close again, same as earlier, and that annoying pull was back stronger. His eyes flicked over me, quick, like he was sizing up an opponent. Or something else.

“You gonna keep running your mouth during games?” he asked, edge sharp.

“Only if you keep skating like you need the help,” I shot back. We were inches apart now. I could see the faint bruise on his jaw from practice.

He exhaled, half laugh, half groan. “This is fucked.”

“Tell me about it.” My voice came out breathier than I meant. Virgin me, standing here alone with the guy I’d been low-key obsessing over after one fight, now legally tied to him through parents. I wanted to bolt. I wanted him to stay.

Riven rubbed the back of his neck, looking away first. “Stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours. Don’t screw up the team photos. And don’t….” He stopped, jaw tight.

“Don’t what?” I pressed, stepping closer because apparently I liked torturing myself.

“Don’t make this weirder than it already is.” His eyes met mine again, darker. For a second I thought he might say more, or grab me, or something. Instead he turned for the door. “Dinner’s at seven. Try not to embarrass yourself.”

“Asshole,” I muttered as the door clicked shut.

I sank onto the bed, hands over my face. Dear diary, I’m screwed. He’s hot. He’s my stepbrother. He hates me. And I can’t stop thinking about how his voice sounded when he got close. I need to act tough. Keep the sarcasm up. But part of me….the part that’s been waiting years since I turned sixteen, years wonders what would happen if I stopped pretending.

Mom called up the stairs for me to come down and “bond.” I sighed, stood up, and fixed my hair in the mirror. Game on, I guess. This family just got a lot more complicated.