Skating Into Sin: Fake Dating My Hockey Bully

Ivy

The acceptance email was still open on my phone.

I had read it so many times over the past fourteen days that I could recite every word from memory, but today, standing just outside the massive stone archway of Northbridge University on the first day of the new semester, I needed to see it again.

The word “congratulations” looked ridiculously small for something that had just changed my life.

My hands shook as I stared at the screen. Not from fear exactly, but from the wild, electric disbelief that this was actually happening. Two years of applications, rejection letters, and quiet nights wondering if someone like me was even allowed to dream this big. And somehow, against every odd, I had won a fully funded scholarship to Northbridge University.

Everyone knew how impossible that was. Northbridge was wildly popular in California, with one of the most competitive admission rates in the country. They only offered a single fully funded scholarship each year out of thousands of applications. Everyone else fought for partial scholarships at best. Getting the full ride—tuition, housing, books, everything felt like winning the lottery. I should have felt victorious.

Instead, my stomach flipped with the terrifying possibility that one wrong move could make it all disappear.

Students streamed past me, dragging suitcases and calling out to friends, their laughter bright against the late summer air.

Mom should have been here—taking too many photos, and crying happy tears, instead, she was back at the care home, recovering from another round of treatment.

I slipped the phone into my pocket, squared my shoulders, and headed toward the Athletic Department.

As a photography major, my volunteer assignment had been automatically selected for me.

The university hockey team.

I was expected to photograph practices, games, promotional events, and social media content throughout the semester.

It wasn't exactly my dream assignment.

I knew nothing about hockey beyond the fact that players enjoyed throwing themselves into walls at alarming speeds.

Still, a scholarship student didn't get to complain.

I checked the room number written on my orientation sheet and followed the hallway until I reached a large black door marked Northbridge Hockey Club (NHC).

Laughter and male voices spilled from inside, followed by a loud crash. I took a slow breath, then pushed the door open.

The smell of sweat, ice, and stale energy drinks hit me first.

Nearly twenty players filled the room. Some lounged on benches, others argued over a table littered with bottles. When the door shut behind me, only a few heads turned before they went right back to their conversations.

My jaw tightened.

“Excuse me—” I started, clearing my throat but no one paid attention.

I tried again, louder. “Hi, I’m the new photographer assigned to the team—”

Still nothing. A couple of guys laughed at something on a phone. Another slammed a locker door.

Heat crawled up my neck. Back in high school, shrinking into the background had only made things worse for me. And I wasn’t about to start my first day at Northbridge as the invisible scholarship girl again.

I spotted a metal folding chair near the door, grabbed it, and slammed it down hard on the tile floor.

The loud clang cut through the room like a gunshot.

Heads snapped toward me. The guys sprawled on the benches sat up fast, cursing under their breath. A few smirked, clearly entertained by the audacity.

“Now that I have your attention,” I said, forcing my voice steady and pasting on a wide smile, “I’m Ivy Hart, the new photographer assigned to the team this semes—”

The word died in my throat as my eyes collided with his.

He sat up slowly from the far bench, a towel sliding down his shoulders. Even half-dressed and relaxed, he commanded the entire room. His gaze landed on me, and a slow, entertained smirk curved his lips—like my little power move was the highlight of his day.

Fear slammed into me so hard my knees nearly buckled. Because sitting across the room was the one person I hated the most.

Asher Hayes.

The same paralyzing dread I’d carried through every day of high school crashed over me like no time had passed. After clawing my way here, after sacrificing everything, the universe had delivered the cruelest possible punchline.

Asher’s eyes narrowed in recognition as his smirk deepened.

Silence swallowed the room. His teammates glanced between us, sensing the sudden shift but not understanding it. A small, humiliating hiccup escaped my throat.

Asher rose from the bench. Every eye followed him as he crossed the room and stopped directly in front of me—close enough that I caught the faint scent of his soap and the sharp edge of amusement in his expression.

His gaze swept over me once, slow and deliberate, before returning to my face.

Then he spoke, voice low and cutting.

“Looks like the charity case finally made it to college.”