Boyfriend Bargain

  Boyfriend Bargain

  Ilsa Madden-Mills

  Boyfriend Bargain

  Copyright © 2019 by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  Cover Design by Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

  Model: Wirth

  Photography: Brian Jamie

  Editing by: C Marie

  Little Dove Publishing

  Copyright Law:

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, this book has been pirated and you are stealing. Please delete it from your device and support the author by purchasing a legal copy. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above copyright owner of this book or publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked statue and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  First Edition May 2019

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Sugar

  2. Zack

  3. Sugar

  4. Sugar

  5. Sugar

  6. Sugar

  7. Zack

  8. Sugar

  9. Sugar

  10. Zack

  11. Zack

  12. Sugar

  13. Sugar

  14. Zack

  15. Sugar

  16. Zack

  17. Sugar

  18. Zack

  19. Sugar

  20. Zack

  21. Sugar

  22. Zack

  23. Sugar

  24. Sugar

  25. Sugar

  26. Sugar

  27. Sugar

  28. Zack

  29. Zack

  30. Sugar

  31. Zack

  32. Sugar

  33. Sugar

  34. Zack

  35. Sugar

  36. Sugar

  37. Zack

  38. Zack

  39. Sugar

  40. Zack

  41. Sugar

  42. Zack

  43. Sugar

  44. Zack

  45. Sugar

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from I Dare You

  Also by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  About the Author

  For all the sparkly unicorns. You know who you are.

  Prologue

  Zack

  When I showed up for tonight’s game, I didn’t know it would try to kill me.

  I picture the headlines now: D-1 hockey player dies during biggest rivalry event of the year.

  Whatever. I push those thoughts down and skate onto the rink, ignoring my out-of-control heartbeat. The thing is, I can’t die. Sure, I scored two goals in the first two periods even after some heavy body checks, but that’s not enough if I want to break the tie.

  I need a hat trick.

  I need to be the hero.

  But the more I think about the fact that my chest is thumping faster than it should, the worse it gets.

  Slow down, I tell my heart. Please.

  It doesn’t, and I inhale slowly through my nose then out through my mouth. Deep breaths usually chill me out when performance anxiety hits, but the arena spins, and I resist the urge to skate back to the bench and put my head between my legs.

  Shake it off, Z.

  It’s just nerves in front of the home crowd. Use it as energy.

  But this…this feels different. Like a train about to derail.

  My jaw tightens as I clench my fists, physically willing myself to push one skate in front of the other.

  Dressed in our black and gold, the team and I move to the center of the rink and up to the faceoff. Briefly, my thoughts go to the people in the stands. Watching. Depending on me to be the hockey star.

  He has it all, people say. Number one pick in the NHL. Hobey Baker Award winner.

  “Z? You good?” It’s Eric, my winger and best friend. Without even looking, I know the redheaded behemoth is assessing me—probably with a scowl on his bearded face.

  He’ll think I’ve lost my mind.

  He’ll think I can’t keep my shit together when it really counts.

  I’m supposed to be strong.

  I’m the captain.

  I am this team.

  “Z?” His voice is more insistent. “You ready for this?”

  My chest squeezes and my arms tingle. Am I dying?

  Don’t look at him. Dude sees everything.

  I give him a nod.

  Reece, my younger brother and another version of myself—so much so that it’s eerie—skates up on the other side. He slaps me on the back with his gloved hand and points his stick toward the Minnesota-Duluth players. “Ready to kick some bulldog ass?”

  “Yeah.” One of the opposing defensemen catches my eye and makes a lewd gesture with his hands. It’s just a regular season game, but the rivalry between our universities goes back forty years. They also kicked our asses last year during the Frozen Four. Cold determination builds, battling with my racing heart as I grit my teeth. If you want to end up a champion, you have to climb the biggest mountains one step at a time, and right now this team is Mt. Everest.

  I have to score.

  A clammy feeling washes over me.

  Shit.

  Get. Yourself. Together.

  Somewhere off in the distance, a lone female fan yells, “Go, Z!” and chills race down my spine. It’s not her, but something about the voice is familiar enough that it sends me back in time to a place when I thought the world was golden.

  She’s dead, and I know it, yet…

  Panic claws at my body as the cold air around me grows hot and thick. My throat tightens and it’s all I can do to not rip off my helmet. My brain wants to climb out of my head and push the tension away. My stick wobbles as I juggle it, trying to keep it from clattering on the ice.

  Wake up, Z. Your heart is going to pop out of your chest.

  Coach Swearingen yells something, and I swivel my head to look at him, watching his lips move in slow motion. The lights of the arena blind me, and it feels like a monumental effort, but I somehow manage to put my hand up to shield the glare.

  I’m swaying and I think I taste ashes in my mouth. God, this helmet is choking me. My limbs are chunks of lead, and I stop, panting as I hunch over on the ice until I manage to stand again. I’m vaguely aware of the stares of the officials, the calls from my teammates, the wave of silence slowly drifting over the arena.

  Reece and Eric call my name.

  Someone touches my arm—I think it’s an official—but I brush their hand off.

  “Z! Z! Z!”

  It’s that girl in the stands again.

  I can’t do this in front of everyone.

  Zack Morgan is not weak.

  I’m a goddamn superstar.

  Even though I don’t deserve it.

  That’s when I bolt, pulling away.

  By the time I make it past the other players on the bench—I can’t look at them for fear of them seeing what a total fucking disaster I am—I already have my helmet and gloves off. Chest heaving and gulping in air that isn’t there, I dash down the carpeted, darkened hallway, my heart a runaway train.

  Just go.

  But I don’t know where.

  I don’t know what I’m doing.

  I just know I need to make this i
nsanity stop.

  You brought this on yourself, a voice says in my head. You should have worked out harder. You should have run that extra mile. You should have done that new age meditating shit. You should have scored three goals instead of two in the first period and then this pressure wouldn’t be here.

  This isn’t normal.

  I exhale rapidly, trying to breathe properly, but God help me, I can’t…

  Dashing for the locker room, my legs pump to get me there. I fling open the door and dart inside, my body shaking as I jerk off my jersey, followed by my pads.

  Standing in just my pants, my eyes are wild as I sweep the place, taking in the giant lion painted on the wall with the Never Give Up slogan underneath. Dashing to my wooden locker, I reach in and yank out the small silver medallion that’s hanging from a hook.

  I don’t wear it during games, but maybe I should. Maybe I should, just as a reminder.

  “Nothing gold can stay,” I manage to whisper aloud, the words the title and last line of a poem by Robert Frost. Cradling the necklace in my palm, my thumb rubs the silver circle, feeling the etching of the letters.

  From a distance, I hear pounding footsteps—medics and trainers, always ready.

  My chest beats and beats and beats, gaining speed, gaining momentum, and darkness creeps into my vision as I slip the chain around my neck.

  My knees buckle and I collapse on the floor.

  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I whisper to the girl I killed.

  1

  Sugar

  Two weeks later

  Listen, I don’t normally hide behind a dusty old support column in the basement of the Kappa house, but when I do, I’m a true ninja. In fact, I’ve been holding up this piece of wood for a full ten minutes, sipping on disgusting spiked punch as I periodically stick my head out and survey the dimly lit room. It’s my first frat party—pretty sad for a senior—and I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of drunk, gyrating co-eds.

  Surprisingly, not one person has noticed my furtive glances from my hidey-hole except for the leering frat guy in the corner. Worst of all, he’s wearing a too-tight black shirt over his beer gut that reads Blink If You Want Me, and unfortunately, sometimes I accidentally do look in his direction and we make eye contact. Obviously I blink. I mean, it’s not like I can just not blink.

  He 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.