CHAPTER SIX
The roar of the crowd was a physical weight, pressing against my eardrums until my head throbbed.
I stood just behind the plexiglass of the players’ bench, my fingers cramping as I gripped the cold metal of my clipboard.
A hot hockey match was going on. Even though I understood nothing, every time a player slammed into the boards, the vibration rattled through the soles of my shoes, making my teeth chatter.
My gaze was fixed on Mikel. As much as I didn't want to admit it, he was a total god on the ice. He moved with a ruthless, predatory grace that made the other players look like they were skating through molasses.
Every time he caught the puck, the stadium erupted into a thunderous chant of his name. He was fast, spinning past defenders with an arrogance that should have been infuriating, but was somehow hypnotic.
He scored the first goal within three minutes.
As the crowd went wild, Mikel's gaze swept through the ice, he didn't look at his teammates. He didn't look at the coach.
Instead, he skated a slow, deliberate circle near the bench, his eyes locking onto mine through the cage of his helmet like a silent command: Watch me.
I felt my face heat up despite the freezing air. He was insufferable, a peacock on skates, yet I couldn't tear my eyes away.
He skated back into the game and immediately the rivalry continued. And it was then, I seemed to remember who Mikel’s opponent was… Kenneth
Kenneth moved in to block him, his jaw set in that familiar, stubborn line. The clash of their sticks sounded like a gunshot.
Kenneth tried to hold his ground, but Mikel was too quick. With a flick of his wrists and a deceptive shimmy, Mikel spun past him, leaving Kenneth grasping at empty air.
The final buzzer blared, signaling a 4-1 victory.
The team swarmed Mikel, pounding on his shoulders.
His coach was shouting praise from the sidelines, and Mikel just offered that lazy, lopsided grin—the one that said he’d known the outcome before the first whistle.
Kenneth walked over, his face a mask of suppressed rage, as he walked past me, with his team mates trailing behind.
I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My heart was still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
It should have been a team win, but Mikel had turned it into a personal dare.
Two hours later, I was standing in front of the full-length mirror in my dorm, my breath hitching in my throat. I tugged at the hem of my swimsuit, feeling a surge of reckless adrenaline.
"Oh, shut up. You look absolutely lethal," Sarah said, pausing with a charcoal face mask halfway applied to her forehead.
"If you’re trying to give that hockey god a heart attack, you’re about three seconds away from success."
I looked at my reflection and barely recognized the girl staring back.
I wasn't wearing the oversized, moth-eaten sweaters I usually used as armor. Instead, I was wearing a hot pink one-piece swimsuit that hugged every curve I’d spent years trying to hide.
I’d layered a sheer, flowy kimono over it, but it did little to mask the bold statement I was making.
I knew Mikel’s preferences. I’d overheard him once telling his teammates that pink was "too loud, too girly, too distracting" and I was definitely not wearing it for that exact reason. I wasn't dressing to fit into his world; I was dressing to annoy him. I wanted to be a thorn in his side, a distraction he couldn't ignore, just he was to me.
Sarah leaned in, expertly flicking a wing of eyeliner across my lid. "You look dangerous, Brianna. Like you’re finally ready to burn the school down."
I offered a small, hesitant grin. I was damn nervous about this.
**
The "Hockey House" was a sprawling, three-story nightmare of loud bass, flashing LED strips, and the smell of cheap beer.
Even from the sidewalk, I could feel the floorboards vibrating. My palms were sweaty as I adjusted the silk of my kimono and walked toward the porch.
Mikel was there, surrounded by a circle of teammates. He was wearing red board shorts and a white linen shirt that he hadn't bothered to button more than halfway.
His hair was still damp from the post-game shower, curling at the nape of his neck in a way that made my stomach flip. He was leaning back, a red cup in his hand, looking like the king of the campus.
Well…until he saw me.
The lazy smile vanished instantly. His cup halted mid-air. His gaze traveled down slowly, starting at my face—now free of the heavy glasses—and lingering on the bright pink fabric and the line of my legs. The silence that stretched between us was louder than the music.
"You’re late," he finally said, his voice lower and rougher than usual. He stepped toward me, his eyes dark with something I couldn't quite read. Anger? Shock? Or maybe just the realization that his puppet had teeth.
"I’m exactly on time," I countered, rolling my eyes and stepping past him into the house. "Try to keep up, Captain."
The moment we crossed the threshold, I regretted ever rushing forward.
Every gaze was on me. Conversations dying mid-sentence.
I saw a group of girls near the punch bowl actually gasp, their eyes darting between my pink swimsuit and Mikel’s hand, which had found its way to the small of my back.
Without my glasses and my protective layers of wool, I was a stranger to them.
Those were the reactions I avoided, that's why I always wore oversize.
We moved deeper into the party, the bass vibrating in my very bones.
Every time his fingers brushed against my skin, a spark of electricity shot up my spine.
“It was a performance,” I reminded myself. “Just an act.”
But the way he looked at me when he thought no one was watching felt terrifyingly real.
"Well, well. Look at the little mouse trying to play dress-up."
I stiffened.
Imogen was standing near the fireplace, her arms crossed, her eyes dripping with venom.
She looked me up and down, her lip curling in mock surprise. "A pink swimsuit, Brianna? Really? It’s a bit... desperate, don't you think? You don't belong here, and no amount of neon fabric is going to change the fact that you’re just a temporary fix for Mikel’s GPA."
I felt the familiar sting of shame, the urge to shrink back into the shadows. But then I felt Mikel’s grip tighten on my waist. He didn't say a word, but his presence was a solid wall at my back.
I took a breath, meeting Imogen’s gaze with a coolness I didn't know I possessed.
"I didn't dress for the house, Imogen. I dressed for myself. If you’re intimidated by a bit of color, maybe that’s something you should take up with your therapist."
The surrounding crowd "oohed," and Imogen’s face turned a mottled red anger flashing in her eyes.
Before I could say something else, she walked up to me with a growl.
Mikel tried to step in front of me but I waved him off and removed his grip from me.
I was done being controlled by Imogen.
"You…" Before I could utter any other word, she suddenly shoved me hard.
I stumbled backwards, losing my balance and fell into the swimming pool. Hard!
I struggle upward, feeling the water filling up my nostril as I gasp for her. My life flashing before my eyes.
“Help. I can't swim!" I shrieked.
