Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance by Kate Willoughby (reading a book .txt) 📕

DarkroomA Moo U Hockey Novel

Kate Willoughby

This book was inspired by the True North Series written by Sarina Bowen. It is an original work that is published by Heart Eyes Press LLC.

Copyright © 2021 by Kate Willoughby. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

In memory of Lisa B. Kamps

Forget about resting in peace.

I hope you're up there enjoying a giant margarita!

I miss you, my friend.

Contents

1. Indi

2. Hudson

3. Indi

4. Hudson

5. Indi

6. Indi

7. Hudson

8. Indi

9. Hudson

10. Indi

11. Hudson

12. Indi

13. Hudson

14. Indi

15. Hudson

16. Indi

17. Hudson

18. Indi

19. Hudson

20. Hudson

21. Indi

22. Indi

23. Hudson

24. Indi

25. Hudson

26. Indi

27. Indi

28. Hudson

29. Hudson

30. Indi

31. Indi

32. Hudson

33. Indi

34. Hudson

35. Hudson

36. Indi

37. Hudson

38. Indi

39. Hudson

40. Indi

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Acknowledgments

The best mirror is a friend's eye.

--Scottish proverb

1

Indi

Even though the first day of fall semester here at Burlington University wasn’t until tomorrow, I was in serious study mode. I wanted to become a doctor and planned to take the Medical College Admissions Test, or MCAT, in January. The MCAT is one of the hardest standardized tests known to man and I was supposed to spend between three and four hundred hours preparing for it, in addition to all my regular college coursework.

Unfortunately, I’d been so engrossed in my studies tonight I hadn’t realized the time. It was almost eight o’clock, my stomach was painfully empty and I had nothing in my Carter Hall apartment but a pack of sugarless gum.

There was one campus cafeteria still open—The Marketplace—but I’d already taken off all of my makeup.

For most people, this would not be a big deal, but I was born with a large, irregular reddish-purple birthmark, called a port-wine stain. It covered the upper left quadrant of my face and made it look like I lost a no-holds-barred game of paintball. My white parents adopted me from the Chinese orphanage where I’d been abandoned, presumably because of this birthmark. My mom assures me there was a time when I didn’t care what people thought about my face, but I don’t remember it. I only remember being teased and stared at and eventually deemed too different to include in the group.

Until I started wearing makeup.

These days, my normal beauty routine took a half hour. Tonight, I didn’t have that kind of time. The Marketplace was going to close soon.

I put on an oversized Mickey Mouse hoodie and wrapped a scarf over my nose and mouth. When I added sunglasses, virtually none of my face was visible. Hopefully, I’d be able to go in, grab something—anything—check out and leave without anyone noticing me.

I was good to go all the way to the dining hall, keeping to the shadows like a thief. But once I got to the brightly lit building, it was a different story. I checked my reflection in the glass double doors before entering and almost didn’t recognize myself. Dressed as I was with my arms wrapped around myself and a slightly hunched posture, I looked timid and afraid, like I was the victim of a bad home situation. This wasn’t me. Not anymore. I hadn’t looked like this since I was thirteen, about to face another day of teasing and bullying.

Appalled, I immediately straightened my posture, lifted my chin and entered the building with my normal amount of confidence.

In an effort to make a healthy choice, I perused the array of salads. There was one chicken Caesar and one Greek. They both looked a little wilted, so I headed over to the pizza by the slice area. My family owned a successful pizzeria, Slice of Heaven, back home, so I was a bit of a pizza snob, but given the choice between wilted salad and pizza made with substandard dough in a less than ideal oven, I’ll pick pizza every time.

The pepperoni looked like a safe bet. Even though they were generous slices, I got two—one for tonight and one to save in the fridge for tomorrow. Thinking I was home free, I was turning toward the cashier when I collided with someone.

A tall, very solid male someone.

The bowl on his tray upended as it hit the floor, detonating with a spectacular splash of hot chili. A large helping of cornbread bit the dust, too, as his spoon and my pizza slices skittered several feet away. Worst of all, he had a large drink that slid into his chest with quite a bit of force, enough to cause the contents of the cup to geyser up into his face.

People turned and gasped. I stood there, horrified, speechless.

As our eyes met briefly, my heart rate tripled and my mouth went dry.

Shit. I knew this guy.

He was Hudson Forte, darling of the hockey team. Tall, with blue-eyes and sun-kissed blond hair, he looked like he’d been plucked off the beach at Malibu. Freshman year, I caught him and my ex-roommate, Blair, just finishing a nooner in the dorm room she and I shared at the time.

He was just as ripped now as he was then.

His root-beer-drenched shirt clung to every muscle on his rock-hard torso. A pool of soda swirled around on the tray he was still holding. People were gaping at the spectacle. His friend had his phone out and took a picture of him as he set the tray of root beer aside.

“I’m so sorry,” I exclaimed, my voice muffled by my scarf. “I didn’t see you.”

“Hey, accidents happen,” he said, giving me a concerned smile. “No harm done. You’re all right, aren’t you?”

“Me? I’m fine. Just embarrassed.”

As he peered more closely at my face. I realized my scarf had slid down a little and I jerked it back