Chloe snorts, pulling out her laptop. “Tell us how you really feel, Kinsley.”
“I feel like my parents never once came to my academic award ceremonies, but they haven’t missed one of Kane’s football games since he was eight years old. I feel like I’m studying to save lives, and they still introduce me as ‘Kane’s little sister.’ So yeah, I hate jocks.”
Chloe gives me a sympathetic look. “Okay, fair point. But speaking of campus deities, did you hear the Glacier Hawks hockey team won back-to-back games this week? They’re undefeated.”
“Hooray,” I murmur, my voice flat. “More victory parties, more property damage. More girls walking around in oversized jerseys like they’ve won some kind of prize.”
An image of Blair flashes in my mind, beaming in one of Kane’s jerseys at his last game. I love her, truly. We talk all the time, and I’m the proud aunt and godmother to their baby boy, Braxton. But I could never understand wanting to wrap your entire identity in a man’s name and number. I want my own name to be the one that matters.
“You’re impossible,” Chloe laughs. “But even you have to admit, West Monroe is on another level. He’s not justajock. He’sthejock.”
Ah, West Monroe. Captain of the Glacier Hawks hockey team. The golden boy, the one whose name is a currency on campus. Even I, in my self-imposed exile from all things athletic, can’t escape the legend. He’s known for being fast, brutal on the ice, and utterly untouchable off it.
“He’s more than that,” Chloe adds, her fingers flying across her keyboard. She has a talent for knowing everything about everyone. “West Monroe is a nineteen-year-old senior. He graduated from high school at sixteen. He’s a Business Administration major on a full academic scholarship. He’s only here to get the degree before he’s drafted into the NHL this year. The guy’s a machine.”
Nineteen. The same age as me. A senior. The information settles in my gut like a stone. He’s not some dumb brute, he’s a genius. That’s somehow worse. It means his actions are calculated. It means he’s smart enough to know precisely how to get what he wants.
Chloe’s eyes light up with a dangerous glint that I’ve learned to dread. “You know, for someone who hates them, you sure do have a lot of opinions.”
“They’re an environmental hazard I’m forced to analyze for my own safety.”
“Right.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I dare you.”
I narrow my eyes, my black hair falling in my face. “No.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet.”
“It involves a jock. Therefore, my answer is an unequivocal, absolute no.”
“I dare you to prove it,” she says, a wicked smile spreading across her face. “Prove you’re so immune. The hockey team is having their victory party tonight. I dare you to go up to the king himself, West Monroe… and kiss him.”
The air freezes in my lungs. I stare at her, horrified. “Are you insane? Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” Chloe challenges, her voice laced with glee. “You said it yourself. They’re specimens to be analyzed. What’s the big deal? It’s a social experiment. Go up to him, kiss him, and walk away. Prove to me—and to yourself—that you’re as unaffected as you claim. Unless… you’re scared.”
Scared. The word is a lit match tossed on my pride. I’m not afraid of some guy with a puck and an ego. I’mnot.
“I’m not scared,” I snap, my voice louder than I intend.
“Then do it,” she presses. “One kiss. One secret. You walk in, find him, kiss him, and you can spend the rest of the year saying ‘I told you so.’ Or you can admit that maybe, just maybe, you’re a little bit afraid that one of them could actually get under your skin.”
My jaw tightens. The idea is ludicrous. It’s walking into the lion’s den and handing the lion a steak knife. He’s everything I despise, wrapped in a 6’3” package of muscle and sandy-blond perfection. Kissing him would be a betrayal of every principle I’ve built to protect myself.
But she’s cornered me, and my fatal flaw has always been that I can’t back down from a challenge.
I look at Chloe’s triumphant, expectant face. I take a deep, steadying breath, the smell of old paper and dust filling my lungs.
“Fine,” I say, the single word feeling as if I’ve just signed my own death warrant. “I’ll do it.”
Two
Kinsley
The Glacier Hawks’ on-campus house is less of a home, and more of a shrine to testosterone and poor decisions. From a block away, the bass from the speakers is a physical vibration in my chest, and the lawn is already littered with red solo cups. It’s exactly the circle of hell I expected.
“Deep breaths,” Chloe says, grabbing my hand as we cut across the lawn. “Think of it as a tactical infiltration mission.”
“I’m thinking of it as a massive mistake,” I mutter, pulling my jacket tighter. I chose my armor carefully tonight: black jeans, a plain grey t-shirt, and a worn leather jacket. No part of me will be mistaken for one of the puck bunnies in team-branded crop tops.
