I Hate You - Ilsa Madden-Mills Page 0,104

sends me a rather dainty finger wave and motions for me to come over. For the hundredth time.

“Jesus,” I say under my breath. Never in a million years my eyes glare.

Besides, it’s the hockey player I’m here for—the one who hasn’t arrived at this party to celebrate the big win over Western Michigan this weekend.

Cursing under my breath, I check my watch for the second time, as if something might have changed in the last few minutes. Do these party people ever sleep or study? How do they deal with hangovers the next day? Ten PM already on a Sunday night and I should be back in my room, curled up on my bed devouring Ding Dongs and Doritos while I go over notes for tomorrow’s classes.

My shoulders press into the column as a swarm of giggling girls in high heels stagger past me. One of them bangs her elbow into my side but barely gives me a second glance. Rubbing the sore spot, I call out in my sweetest Southern accent, which comes out when I’m pissed. “Don’t worry about me, y’all. I’m fiiiiine!”

They never even turn around. Ugh. I sigh. All I want to do is leave this party, put on my sweats and camisole, and veg out, maybe turn on some HBO after my studying is over. It takes a lot of work to attend one of the most prestigious—and most expensive—colleges in the Midwest. Welcome to Hawthorne University.

I blow at a piece of white-blonde hair that’s come out of my headband. Maybe he isn’t going to show.

Then it happens.

An electric current crackles in the air and the partygoers stop talking, looking around expectantly, almost as if they know something big is coming.

It’s him. Has to be.

No one else has this kind of stupid effect on people.

Standing on my tiptoes, I watch as Zack Morgan, AKA Z, AKA the Heartbreaker, AKA Douchebag (that one’s my own contribution to the list) strides through the ground-level basement door, dipping his head so he doesn’t bang it on the frame.

Heartbreaker. Pfft. In other words, he’s a womanizer.

That’s a moot point, though. I’m not here to discuss societal stereotypes of future pro athletes. I’m here to bargain.

Two other players—one blond and one a redhead—flank him on each side like chess pieces protecting their king. I squint. I think those guys are his…wingers?

The DJ turns down the music to announce the hockey team has arrived, and a buzz goes through the crowd as partiers clap and cheer.

The players move, the sea of people parting enough that I see the entirety of him in his full-blown glory and a tingle of something zips up my spine.

Finer than frog hair is what my southern mama would have said about him, and there’s no doubt it’s true. He’s hot as hell and it slams into you when you look at him, like a great wind in a hurricane.

Without being too obvious, I study him from the bottom of his black motorcycle boots up to the tight jeans that cling to his thighs, all the way to the fitted, super-sleek dark grey leather jacket encasing his well-built upper body. On anyone else, that jacket would come off as pretentious—like a wannabe biker—but he looks like he just stepped off a movie screen.

He’s a big-ass Viking.

I examine the six-foot, six-inch frame of the NHL’s number one draft pick. Apparently, he’s so slick on the ice that the Nashville Predators drafted him this past June, willing to wait a year for him to finish his senior year at HU.

It’s definitely not just his toned, athletic grace in the arena that captures people’s attention. It’s that face. Chiseled and firm and strong, his jaw is spectacular. And his long, wavy, dirty blond hair? Good Lord, I’ve heard jokes about “hockey hair” and how hot it is—and now I see why. My fingers itch to touch it.

His nose is rather long, fitting for his height, but there’s a slight imperfection, a small dent, which I imagine came from a hockey injury. It’s impossible to see his eye color in this dim lighting, but I already know from his online HU bio that they’re grey.

As if he senses me staring, he flicks his eyes in my direction and I stiffen, part of me terrified he’ll find me, the other part hoping he does. It was the same last week when I showed up for ladies’ night at the Tipsy Moose to spy on him. (It was right there in his bio that he frequented the popular bar, so I wouldn’t call it stalking.)

That night I sat in a back booth, sipping on a shot of smooth tequila, trying to conjure up the backbone to go up to him and introduce myself. I mean, I have to start somewhere, but I’m not a flirty person. I have balls, don’t get me wrong, but when it comes to him, nerves abound.

You have to make a move, Sugar.

With a deep exhalation, I take a step toward him just as a group of sorority girls call out his name and run up to say hi, rapt expressions on their faces as if he’s the big present on Christmas morning.

Come on…

My hands twist as people circle around him, guys too, clapping him on the back and clamoring to get his attention. I don’t blame them, I guess, if sucking up to athletes is your thing.

Doubt creeps in, and I frown, worrying I can’t compete with this kind of attention. I’m not bubbly or even a hockey fan.

He moves around the crowd and stalks into the center of the room, his gaze searching the perimeter, and even though I’ve eased back behind the column, I read the concentration in his gaze.

The rumor is, at certain parties he chooses a new girl to be his for the next month. See? Douchebag. Miss December has apparently been dumped, and he’s ready for another one if the throng of females scrambling to get to him is anything to go by. As I watch, one girl crawls between the legs of her friends then jumps up in front of him and throws her arms around his neck. She lets out a squeal, and I roll my eyes. All I need is some popcorn and this is a show.

After a few hugs, he manages to move away from them and takes up residence near the dance floor. His two friends stand next to him as he scans the crowd, arms loose at his sides, his gaze moving from one face to the next as if searching for something special, much like I do when picking out a good donut.

His attention lands on the column, and his eyes rove until they capture mine. I freeze. Crap. My body hums, and I nearly drop my cup as a jolt of adrenaline lights up my veins.

Well.

Maybe this won’t be as hard as I thought.

Maybe I can get his attention.

But then he frowns.

Wait—why is he frowning?

Am I that awful? Well, yes. I glance down at my black leggings and puffy black North Face jacket. I’m a blob in shapeless clothes, and I guess I could have actually put on party attire before I came, but this extravaganza happened right after my work shift and I didn’t have time.

“I can’t do this,” I mutter under my breath.

He’s the king of the ice, and I’m just…no one. I come from nothing. I have nothing, literally. Okay, I have fifty-three dollars in my checking account, but that’s barely enough to hold me over until my next paycheck. Thank goodness for scholarships and loans. But man, those loans are big, just waiting for me when I graduate. I twist a strand of hair around my index finger, making it into a tight spiral before letting it go.

I have to be realistic.

This crazy, harebrained idea will never work.

Plus, I don’t have time for over-the-top, testosterone-driven superstar athletes.

Until now, that is.

I have to make time.

Because Zack Morgan is the key to me getting into the law school of my dreams. He just has to agree to be my fake boyfriend.

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