The Hookup
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Lynn Fair
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644K
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74
At Westbridge University, hockey star Wyatt Pierce is used to getting what he wants—until he collides with Rory Dillon, a sharp-tongued journalism major who refuses to be impressed. What starts as a no-strings hookup turns into late-night texts, stolen moments, and campus-wide rumors neither of them can control. With the spotlight closing in, they’ll have to decide if this is just trouble…or something real.
Chapter 1
WYATT
The thing about Westbridge parties is that they’re a goddamn assault on the senses. Doesn’t matter who’s hosting or what flimsy excuse everyone’s using to get blackout drunk—birthday, victory, surviving midterms—by midnight, it’s always the same: a humid, beer-sticky, bass-thumping hellscape where bad decisions bloom like black mold in the corners.
The music is always too loud, the air thick with sweat and the kind of cheap cologne that makes your eyes water. Every surface is sticky, the floor suspiciously slippery, and the whole place vibrates with the kind of chaotic energy that says something—good or bad—is definitely going down tonight.
I’ve lost count of how many of these I’ve been to over the last few years. At this point, the parties blur together—a flickering montage of flashing lights, pounding music, bodies pressed together in dark corners, the stench of spilled beer and vodka Red Bulls. Faces, laughter, half-remembered hookups, and half-hearted conversations.
Usually, it’s all just background noise, something I float through on autopilot, smiling at the right people, saying the right things.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I’m locked in, my focus zeroed in on one person like she’s the center of gravity and I’m just caught in her orbit.
Savannah Blake.
She’s stationed across the living room, half hidden behind a cluster of sorority sisters, their laughter rising above the music in bursts of shrill, tipsy delight. Savannah doesn’t need to compete for attention—she commands it without even trying.
Her hair is long and dark, glossy enough to reflect the lazy string of LEDs dangling above her head. She leans against the chipped Formica counter, all effortless angles and runway posture, like she belongs on the cover of a magazine, not propped up in a kitchen that probably hasn’t seen a proper cleaning in months.
She tosses her head back, laughing at something, and the movement exposes the long, graceful line of her throat.
It hits me like a punch to the chest.
Pathetic, right? I know. I’m a grown man—captain of the hockey team, a guy who’s had his pick of party girls and puck bunnies since freshman year.
But every time I see Savannah, it’s like I’m seventeen again, hopeless and tongue-tied, half in love with someone who’s always just out of reach.
And tonight, apparently, I’m making it real obvious.
“Close your mouth, Pierce. You’re starting to look like a golden retriever waiting for a treat.” Liam Bancroft’s voice slices through the music and the fog of my Savannah-induced stupor. He’s grinning, a half-empty Solo cup dangling from his tattooed fingers, plaid shirt hanging open over a plain white tee.
He looks like he just rolled out of someone else’s bed and threw on whatever was closest, but he still manages to look like a goddamn magazine spread. The guy has two modes at parties—drinking and giving me shit—and he’s definitely clocked in for both tonight.
I drag my gaze away from Savannah, shooting him a withering glare. “Shut up, Liam.”
Caleb Grant, my other best friend, claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “He’s not wrong, man. You’ve been eye-fucking her since the minute we walked in. It’s getting sad—even for you.”
“I’m not—” I cut myself off, realizing there’s no point. If I give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.
Liam’s smirk stretches wider, and Caleb looks like he’s itching to launch into one of his lectures about priorities and staying focused on the season.
“Forget it,” I mutter, turning back to the crowd, but I already know I’m not fooling anyone.
But the truth is, I can’t let it go. Savannah’s been my “thing” for years now.
She’s the one who ruins the curve for everyone else—smart, driven, sharp as hell, untouchable. And me? I’m just the idiot who keeps circling, too scared to actually make a move, always telling myself I’ll try next time.
“You gonna stand here drooling all night, or are you actually gonna talk to her?” Liam leans in, his words reeking of warm beer and dare.
I tighten my grip on my own cup, knuckles whitening. “I’ll talk to her.”
“When?” Caleb shoots back, brow raised. “Before or after she graduates?”
I tip my beer back and swallow, letting the lukewarm alcohol burn a path down my throat just so I don’t have to answer.
Liam laughs, tapping a rhythm against his cup. “Tragic. Captain Golden Boy can score a hat trick against Michigan U, but he can’t even score a conversation with the only girl he actually wants.”
I flip him off, but I can feel my face heating, a coil of frustration winding tight in my chest. The worst part is, he’s right. And I hate that they know it.
The night grinds on in a blur of noise and sweat and increasingly drunk hockey players. I go through the motions—throwing a grin at a couple of girls who give me that look, letting the crowd carry me from kitchen to living room and back again—but every few minutes, my attention flickers right back to Savannah.
She laughs, she sips, she flips her hair. The gravitational pull is fucking relentless.
And then I see it—a shift in her posture, a quick word to her friend, and Savannah peels away from the group, heading for the stairs. For a second, the crowd parts and she glances over her shoulder, just once, and it’s like someone set off a flare in a dark room.
My pulse kicks up, adrenaline buzzing under my skin, the way it does right before the puck drops.
“Don’t do it,” Caleb mutters, but his warning is half-hearted.
Liam just grins, eyes glinting with mischief. “He’s totally doing it. Go get ’em, Tiger.”
I set my empty cup on the nearest surface—probably someone’s grandma’s side table, now forever branded with a water ring—and start weaving my way through the throng. Every step makes my heart pound harder, every brush of a shoulder or bump from a dancing couple jarring me closer to focus.
Upstairs, the bass fades, replaced by the soft creak of old stairs and the distant hum of a bathroom fan. It’s cooler up here, the lights lower, the party noise muffled by walls that have seen too many nights just like this.
I move down the hallway, scanning for a flash of dark hair, the tilt of Savannah’s shoulders, anything that might tell me I’m on the right track.
Instead, I nearly collide with someone else.
She’s leaning against the wall near the end of the hall, scrolling on her phone with a look of pure, undiluted boredom. The kind of boredom that says she’s too cool for the chaos downstairs and knows it.
Her hair is blonde—shoulder-length, messy waves that catch the dim light—and she’s dressed in a black crop top and high-waisted jeans that make her legs look endless.
Petite, but with an attitude that radiates off her like static electricity. She looks like she could knock out a linebacker with a well-placed glare.
I stop short, pulse skipping for a second as she looks up, hazel-green eyes meeting mine. For half a beat, the world narrows to just that: her gaze, sharp and assessing, electricity sparking through the air between us.
Definitely not Savannah. But somehow, I can’t look away.
“Well,” she says, tucking her phone into her back pocket, voice low and honeyed, smooth as sin. “If it isn’t Westbridge’s golden boy. Did you get lost on the way to the trophy room?”
It takes me a second to recover. The bite in her tone surprises me, throwing me off balance in a way that’s both unsettling and…weirdly intriguing.
“You know me?”
Her lips curve up, flashing a dimple that hits like a sucker punch. “Everyone knows you, Pierce. Captain of the hockey team. Campus playboy. Professional heartbreaker. Need me to keep going, or is your ego already full?”
I can’t help the smirk tugging at my mouth. This girl’s sharp.
“Playboy, huh? That what the rumor mill’s churning out these days?”
“That’s the PG version.” Her eyes flick over me, quick and appraising, and I get the uncomfortable feeling I’m being sized up and found both exactly what she expected and not worth the trouble.
I lean against the wall, mirroring her stance. “You’ve got jokes. I like that.”
She studies me for a second, chin tipped just enough to be a challenge. “I’m sure you do. Men like you usually like anything that gives them attention.”
Something shifts in the air between us—thicker, electric. I step a fraction closer, close enough that she has to look up. Not threatening. Just making it clear she’s got my attention.
“So,” I say, dropping my voice. “Do you have a name, or am I supposed to just call you Trouble?”
One brow arches, the dimple deepening for a split second. “Trouble? That’s the best you’ve got, Captain? I expected more from a guy with your stats.”
I grin, letting my gaze linger for half a second on the curve of her mouth before meeting her eyes again.
“Yeah, well, I’m off the clock. But seriously. A girl like you, hiding out up here while the circus rages downstairs? Definitely trouble.”
Her lips twitch—caught between a smirk and a frown. “Maybe I just don’t find sweaty athletes and lukewarm beer all that appealing.”
“Then why come at all?”
She shrugs, and the motion pulls her top tighter, momentarily short-circuiting my brain. “Sometimes it’s fun to watch the circus.”
I laugh, genuinely. “And that makes me the clown?”
She tips her head, mock-considering. “No. More like the ringleader. Everyone’s here to watch you perform, Wyatt. Must be exhausting, being ‘perfect’ all the time.”
The way she says it is a challenge, the kind that makes my chest ache in a way I can’t quite place.
I don’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. “Should I be offended?” I ask, my voice softer, my heart doing that stupid flip-flop again.
“Depends. Do you actually care what I think?”
The answer comes out before I can think twice. “Absolutely.”
And I realize, suddenly, that I mean it.
For a split second, her expression softens—just enough for the dimple to flash again—and it’s the hardest I’ve been hit by anyone off the ice.
But the moment’s over before I can get my bearings. She straightens, breaking the spell, and steps around me, leaving behind a faint swirl of vanilla and something spicy, the kind of scent that lingers.
“Well, in that case,” she murmurs, already heading for the stairs, “good luck finding whatever—or whoever—it is you’re looking for.”
I turn to watch her go, my gaze drawn helplessly to the sway of her hips, the bounce of that blonde hair, the sheer confidence radiating from every step.
I’m left grinning, dazed, like a moron, long after she’s vanished.
And that’s when reality snaps back. Savannah.
Right. Savannah Blake, the entire reason I climbed those stairs in the first place.
I spin around, scanning the dim hallway, opening a few doors at random. Nothing. No Savannah.
It’s like she’s vanished into thin air, leaving behind nothing but the echo of her laughter and my own stupid hope.
But as I head back down into the thumping chaos of the party, I know something’s changed. My mind isn’t circling Savannah anymore.
It’s stuck on the girl with the sharp tongue and the dangerous dimple.
I came up here for a sure thing.
But I think I just met my game changer.
