A DEAL WITH THE CAPTAIN

A DEAL WITH THE CAPTAIN CHAPTER ONE NOT A FAN LISA’S POV Usually, I'm not particularly fond of Fridays, given that I spend three evenings a week working at Ray's. But this particular Friday night is shaping up to be an absolute headache, and there's a very good reason why. The ice hockey team at Redwood University has just secured a place in the semi-finals, something the entire campus has been celebrating nonstop. We haven’t made it this far in nearly ten years, which means everyone is treating the victory like we've already won the championship. As a result, Ray's is overflowing. The music is louder than usual, laughter bounces off every wall, and the scent of beer, fried food, and a cocktail of colognes hangs thick in the air. Students are packed shoulder to shoulder, chanting the team's name between rounds of shots while the bartenders race to keep up with the endless stream of orders. I'm honestly surprised no one has broken a table or started a fight just yet. "Coach is riding me so hard about my f*****g lunges," Cassie groans, glancing up from a YouTube tutorial on her phone before stuffing it back into the pocket of her uniform. "And I still can't get my jumps right. I'm so f*****g jealous of you, Lisa. You are like a goddess on ice," "We can practice tomorrow," I offer as I line up a row of empty glasses behind the bar. "I've got some free time between two and three, and I'm pretty sure the rink will be empty." Cassie's shoulders visibly relax. We both skate for Redwood University's figure skating team, and we both work at Ray's to help cover expenses, so it's easy to understand each other's frustrations. She brushes a few loose blonde tendrils behind her ear, a grateful smile tugging at her lips just as another group squeezes their way to the counter. "Four tequila shots!" one of them shouts over the deafening music. Cassie sighs dramatically before reaching for the tequila bottle, "Back to reality." I can't help but chuckle. Thank God I'm stuck behind the bar counter tonight. The waiting staff, on the other hand, look seconds away from murdering someone. Every table is full, people are three deep at the counter waiting to order, and the poor servers are weaving through the crowd with trays balanced over their heads, dodging drunken students who apparently forgot how to walk in a straight line. My gaze drifts across the packed pub until it lands on the loudest table in the room and there he is. Bill Turner. My ex-boyfriend. Yeah, don't ask me why I spent the entirety of freshman year dating a guy named Bill. It sounded like a terrible idea even then. Unfortunately, Bill also happens to be ridiculously handsome. Dark hair, broad shoulders and possesses the kind of crooked smile that could convince you the sky was green if he wanted it to. He was charming when he wanted to be and attentive enough to make me believe I was the only girl in the world. Turns out, I wasn't. Right now, he has a pretty brunette perched comfortably on his lap while his teammates howl with laughter around him. We had been the perfect couple.Until Christmas break. One stupid fight involving a drunk game of slutty Truth or Dare and an impulsive breakup that lasted all of forty-eight hours followed. The littel fucker shoved his d**k in some random girl’s p***y almost immediately. By the time he came crawling back with apologies, he'd already slept with one of the university cheerleaders, and there was no coming back from that. Now he's the campus playboy everyone seems to adore, while I've become little more than a footnote in his story. Funny how quickly people forget who got their heart broken. As if sensing my stare, Bill glances across the room. For the briefest second, something soft flickers across his features. Regret. Maybe guilt. Maybe I only imagine it because I want to believe the boy I loved still exists somewhere beneath all the arrogance. Then his jaw tightens and his expression hardens into indifference before he looks away first. "A tequila shot." A deep voice pulls me back to reality. I force myself to swallow the familiar ache that settles in my chest every time I see Bill before reaching for the bottle. "Coming right up." I pour the amber liquid into a shot glass and slide it across the counter. Only then do I bother looking up at the customer. Hunter Walsh Quite possibly the biggest asshole I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. And, unfortunately for everyone with functioning eyes, also the captain of Redwood University's hockey team. The entire campus worships him. Scouts practically attend games just to watch him play, and everyone already assumes he'll be drafted into the NHL after graduation. Sure, having a grandfather who sits on the board of one of the league's franchises doesn't hurt, but even I'll admit that Hunter hardly needs the connections. On the ice, Hunter is an absolute savage. He's fast-so fast that sometimes the puck seems to obey him instead of the other way around. He's aggressive, fearless, and the kind of player who flashes a grin after sending an opponent crashing into the boards. Watching him play is like watching controlled violence disguised as a sport. Even people who know absolutely nothing about hockey find themselves glued to the rink whenever he's on the ice. I still remember the look on Coach Reynolds's face when Hunter committed to Redwood University instead of accepting offers from the dozens of prestigious programs that had been chasing him. The man looked like he'd won the lottery. Then the university announced Hunter as captain before he'd even reached his sophomore season, making him the youngest captain in the history of Redwood's ice hockey program. It caused weeks of debate around campus. Some claimed he hadn't earned it. Others argued there wasn't a better player in the country. Either way, nobody could deny one thing, Hunter had changed the program the moment he stepped onto the ice. Off the ice, though, he's somehow even worse. Hunter is the textbook definition of a rich, talented sports prodigy who knows exactly how devastatingly attractive he is. Confidence practically drips off him, and unfortunately, so do girls. Everywhere he goes, there's always someone hanging off his arm, flirting with him, slipping him their number, or hoping they'll be the next name added to his ever-growing list of conquests. If I had a dollar for every conversation I've overheard about Hunter Walsh; whether it's someone bragging about spending the night with him, desperately trying to, or crying because they mistakenly thought they were special, I could probably quit this job and pay my tuition outright. The guy treats casual hookups like they're another extracurricular activity, and judging by the way people throw themselves at him, nobody seems interested in stopping him. Personally, I find the whole thing exhausting. There's only so much hero worship and gossip one person can listen to before wanting to pour tequila directly into their own ears.