2. MADDIE

CHAPTER 2

MADDIE

I 'm going to write a hockey romance. As soon as I figure out both the hockey part and the romance part.

In theory, I already know how to write a love story. After all, my debut novel, a traditionally published young adult romance that is like The Princess Diaries but with a fat princess, is set to release in a few months. The heroine bullied by mean classmates until—surprise!—she turns out to be the long-lost daughter of a remote country's king. When she travels there, she falls in love with her bodyguard, a super-hot boy her age who was assigned to act as her friend while protecting her from the bad guys. They work together to unravel the secret group that has been trying to dethrone her father, and they fall in love at the same time. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Except romance between two seventeen-year-olds is a bit different from adults. Or at least that's how it looks in books. I wouldn't know IRL. But I've consumed every hockey romance I could get my grubby hands on, and I have a solid grasp of the tropes and such. Consuming books doesn't replace the lived experience but, eh, it's not like I can hire a guy to show me the ropes. Heaven knows I can't find one for free.

What I'm still relatively clueless about is the hockey part. But I have a plan.

I sit near the end of a long table in the loud part of the library. This section is too far from the librarians who regularly shush students, but it's my favorite because people are more interested in their conversations than what others are doing. No one minds me as I pull open the athletic department's website and begin researching the hockey teams.

"Write what you know, they said," I mumble to myself with a mocking giggle.

What I know is young adult books. I live and breathe YA. I read about a hundred fifty per year. In fact, the reason I'm majoring in English at St. Cloud, despite the monumental debt I'm accumulating, is because it's the only college program I could find that is geared toward modern genres, including YA. Here, professors and other classmates don't look down on me for wanting a traditional career in that age category. Without the encouragement of several professors, I wouldn't have queried my book, landed an excellent agent, and sold it to a Big Four publishing house.

The problem is that the first cut of the advance only covered my rent for a few months. I won't see the next payment for a while yet, which poses the need for a side gig. Or several . I already have one as an English tutor, but I need a hybrid career self-publishing as well if I want to keep a roof over my head. Preferably a different roof from the one I'm living under now.

That's how I decided I should write a hockey romance. While I know squat about it, it's what everyone online is obsessed with. I've seen what authors in this genre are making on different platforms. If I could get just a fraction of that, I'd be able to move away from my bullies.

As I jot down the numbers of players on each team and their respective positions, the conversation around me shifts into a different cadence. A single murmur rises in a wave approaching my end of the table. I lift my head and don't have to wonder what the deal is for long.

The textbook definition of tall, dark, and handsome walks toward me. Although he's obviously not looking at me. His attention is set on one of the free chairs by the end of the table. Behind him, he leaves a trail of hushed whispers.

"What is he doing here?"

I catch that one easily. It comes from a girl with stars in her eyes. The he in question either doesn't hear or acts as though it isn't shocking to see the captain of the Thunder Bolts in the library. Which it is, because these are my haunting grounds, and I've never seen him here, unless you count his face on my computer screen, that is.

My pulse spikes as he pulls up the chair two spaces away from me. I lower my head back to the screen and change the roster to the Thunder Strikes, because, whew, I am not immune to Aran Rodriguez. And the up-close, in-person version is overwhelmingly better than his picture.

And also way bigger. As he stretches out his arms to remove his thick coat, I figure his huge wingspan helps him catch a lot of pucks.

Hmm, that's a good note to make for a future hockey player character. I jot it down in my journal.

"Take a picture," someone whispers, and sure enough, the sound of a shutter echoes around the silence his arrival has brought over the table.

I cringe. I don't know who's worse, the obvious stalker snapping pics of a campus celeb or the covert one like me. Except I'm doing book research. I'm not being a creep. And he doesn't have to know what I'm up to. In fact, I'm probably invisible to him.

Which is why I figure this is kismet. I said I'd write a hockey romance, and voilà . The universe has dropped the perfect inspiration in my lap.

Lowering my head, I use my laptop screen to do some discreet people-watching. I've only seen the Bolts' captain on campus from afar and once at a game I was dragged to last year. I could not appreciate the sheer scale of him in those circumstances. After hanging his coat from the back of his chair, he sits down and has to push the chair beside him away so he can squeeze in.

I jot down are all hockey players huge? and underline the question. I'll fork up tickets to a game to get this answered.

I glance around my screen again. He's now pulling a laptop from his backpack. There's already a clear bottle with some green concoction on the table before him. A protein shake? Obviously, athletes need a ton of protein and calories, which isn't something I think about on a daily basis. That's good to know, since I'm doing the reverse of writing what I know here.

My phone buzzes against the table with a racket. I pick it up, fearing it may be yet another text from mother dearest, but it must be my lucky day, because the text is from my boss.

Boss who is NOT a lady

Hey, are you busy right now?

Technically, I am. But I don't know how to explain to her that I'm trying to design a tall, dark, and handsome character out of a real-life TDH.

Me

I'm studying at the library. What's up?

Boss who is NOT a lady

I may need your help urgently. Stand by.

I emote with a thumbs-up and set my phone down.

Back to my so-called studies. College or adult romance is a lot more physical than a typical YA romance, and not just because there may or may not be intimate scenes. It's just that when you're a certain age, you're a bit bolder. You know what's what. Longing stares and blushing while holding hands isn't enough. You want to know the other person inside and out, and it's always easier to start with the outside first.

Which is why checking out Aran Rodriguez is book research.

I use the old trick of stretching my back to scope out the situation. He's not paying attention to me whatsoever, as expected. A thick textbook now lays spread out by his laptop, and he runs his finger softly across the page while he reads. Huh, I wonder what that feels like against skin.

Wow, okay. Now I'm being a creep for sure.

Be objective, Maddie .

Okay, so he's big. He needs extra space to sit, which at least I can relate to, even if, in my case, it's more girth than height. And he drinks protein shakes while he studies. What else is useful?

His mechanical pencil looks tiny in his hand as he makes notes directly on the textbook. What a monster. I would never dare to deface a book. But that's not a fact I can use. He's a leftie, and that's not a big deal either. He pauses to twirl the writing instrument between his fingers at a speed I could never achieve. Okay, so even his fingers are athletic. That may be a useful fact.

Heat explodes in my face at the image my brain conjures. I am definitely a creep now, but I still make a saucy note in my journal about how an elite athlete may use his deft hands away from the court. Or the pitch. Whatever it's called.

My phone buzzes again, and I grab it at the speed of light, now desperate for a distraction from my own thoughts.

Boss who is NOT a lady

Okay, I do need you.

Wyatt won't make it in time for the new student appointment.

I'm switching you around.

It's a command, not a question. After working for Melinda for a couple of years, I know that when she says something like this, it means she already checked my timetable and it works. I trust her. Plus, she also knows I'm desperate for more students.

Me

I'm game.

Boss who is NOT a lady

Great, let me confirm that the student agrees too.

So, I already stretched. How do I make sure the subject's attention is still elsewhere?

A cough!

I twist toward his side, away from the more populated right side of the table, and fake a cough into my inner elbow. Thankfully, he's chugging down his green shake and doesn't catch sight of my smooth move.

Oh. My. Word. I didn't know a human could have so many neck muscles. Is his whole body chiseled like that? Why must we be smack dab in the middle of winter? If he weren't wearing the thickest hoodie known to humanity, I'd see the answer easily. His Adam's apple bobs as he drinks, and for some reason, that makes my face heat up even more.

But then I freeze.

Dark eyes find mine above the rim of his shaker bottle.

Crap. Crap .

I've been caught.

I cough—this time it's for real, because I'm choking on my own saliva.

Where's my own bottle? In the middle of a bad coughing fit, I knock my pen down the table as I paw around my things. Now the whole table looks at me, including the subject of my research.

I squeeze my eyes shut as I down half of my water bottle in one go. At least it means that a) I definitely stopped staring at him, and b) I don't have to apologize for staring if I can't freaking talk.

When I dare open my eyes, I find that he's already moved on and is reading something on his laptop. I'm tempted by the sharp, square-cut of his jaw to keep staring, but I can't possibly endure those deep-set eyes on me again.

I should retreat. I can do the rest of my research from a safer distance. A few coughs escape from my chest while I start packing up, and my phone buzzes again right as I reach for it.

Boss who is NOT a lady

The student agreed to the swap. I'm sending you his profile right now.

He's already waiting at the library, and we're about 15min late.

Yikes. That means I'll have to finesse this guy into extending the first lesson for an extra fifteen minutes so I get paid for the full session, but I'm not above begging. It should be fine as long as I locate him quickly. I switch over to the email app and find the student's profile from Melinda sitting pretty at the top of my inbox. I click on it and my phone nearly slips from my grasp.

Aran Rodriguez's picture looks up at me from the screen.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. But no matter how hard I blink, that's his face and name on the student profile, all right. Wyatt was supposed to tutor him on essay writing starting fifteen minutes ago. And now…

Oh, no. No. No . He lifts his head up from his laptop screen, and those deep-set eyes, dark as an abyss, meet mine once more.

I'm rooted to my chair as the Bolts' captain pushes his chair back. The scrape against the floor catches the attention of the other students again. We all watch as he slowly stands to his full height—the whole six-foot-four-inches of it, according to his player profile. He doesn't break eye contact even as he sweeps all his stuff on the table in my direction with one hand and takes the seat right across the table from me.

I open my mouth to say something. Nothing but air comes out.

That's what happens to awkward turtles like me when the number one hottest guy on campus—as voted by students on the student portal over the summer—pays a modicum of attention to them.

He tilts his head to the side. A deep, husky voice that feels like velvet comes out of his mouth.

"Were you staring because you're my new tutor, or was it something else?"

And I proceed to die.