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She spent seven years preparing to destroy him. She never planned on falling for him. Renet Giles built a whole new life on top of the girl Henry Carter bullied into eating lunch alone. New body, new career, new spine — and a hard drive full of his secrets. Under a faceless username, she became his most devoted hater, tearing him apart under every post, every game, every announcement. Then her magazine handed her the assignment of a lifetime: interview the league's golden boy before a multi-million sponsorship he can't afford to lose. One flattering cover to launder his image — or one surgical article to burn it down. She chose the fire. But nothing goes to plan. Henry flirts back with her anonymous account the same night he asks her, in person, to dinner. He starts showing up on her block. He carries her dry cleaning and makes her laugh on a sidewalk when she's supposed to be gathering ammunition. Two versions of the same woman, and he's chasing both without a clue. The article that ends his career is almost finished. Her finger is hovering over "publish." So why can't she press it? Read How to Hate a Hockey Star now 🔥 Chapter 1 [Renet's POV] "Are you still depressed and self-medicating with illegal substances, Mr. Carter?" The recorder between us catches every syllable. Good. My magazine sent me to write a puff piece on the NHL's newest golden boy: a reputation-laundering fluff job before his big brand deal. And Henry Carter has no idea that the woman sitting across from him is the same girl he bullied into eating lunch alone for an entire semester of senior year. He doesn't recognize me. That's the best part. Seven years ago I was five-foot-nothing with frizzy hair and braces, invisible enough that even the cafeteria ladies forgot my name. Henry Carter and his hockey buddies made sure I was visible just long enough to humiliate. I spent every year since rebuilding from scratch. New body, new career, new spine. Same fury, same hard drive full of his digital skeletons: finsta screenshots, his mother's accidentally-posted prescription receipts, seven years of dirt in neat little folders. I'm also his biggest anonymous hater online. The account that rips him apart under every post. And he's sitting three feet from me without a clue. He blinks just once, slow and confused, and god, he got hotter since school. Broader jaw, sharper cheekbones, same stupid brown eyes that make my pulse hammer. And then the mask slips back on. The corner of his mouth tugs up into a devastating smile. That probably is the reason his reputation needs some whitening: too many girls, too many broken hearts. I wanna wipe that smirk off your ugly mug. "That's a hell of a question." He leans back in his chair, relaxed and nonchalant. I track his protruding veins, and look away immediately. "Where'd you even get that information from?" "From trusted sources." I hold his gaze and keep my pen still. Steady hands, steady voice. The girl who used to stammer in his presence is buried under years of hard work and therapy. "You have great sources then, I guess." He rolls the water bottle between his palms. "To answer your question, no. Never was, really." Liar, I think as bitterness and hurt rises in my throat. He's always been a liar, it seems, unnecessarily cruel and impulsive. I smile and write something meaningless in my notebook. Let him think he's winning. "Your former teammates described your high school years as 'turbulent.' Would you say that's accurate?" He purses his lips momentarily and immediately forces himself to relax. I've watched this face on live broadcasts of hockey games and in comment sections long enough to read every micro-expression he makes. I'm hitting too close to home, and he doesn't want me to know it. "I'd say every teenager's life is turbulent." His voice stays easy, lightweight. He pauses for a second, runs his hand through his dark curly hair, then smirks again. "Mine wasn't special. Wouldn't you say the same about yours?" Fucking bastard. It was you who made my teenage life turbulent, and you know that damn well. "I'd say some of us had it worse than others." I flip to a fresh page instead. "Multiple reports link your name to substance-related incidents during senior year. Your school nearly expelled you. Care to comment?" "Those reports are inaccurate, unverified, and honestly? A little boring." He uncaps the water bottle, drinks and takes his time. "Sounds like you've been reading my favorite online critic. Comments under every post, really committed to the bit." My pulse kicks up, but I keep my expression bored. I wait three seconds before I speak. "Sounds like you've got a fan." "More like a stalker." He laughs, shaking his head, genuinely amused. "Anonymous account, posts under everything I do. Knows things about me that even my agent doesn't. My manager thinks it's some bored teenager. I think it's funnier than that." My heartbeat fastens in stupid anxiety and rage. There's no way he'd know, but my body acts like he knows already. And the fact that he treats it like a punchline makes me want to reach across this table and break his perfect nose. "Okay-okay, moving on." Henry finally relents, holds up both his hands, and my eyes track the length of his fingers. The hell are you looking at, Renet? "Ask me something nicer and maybe I'll be nicer back." I will myself to look him in the eyes. "The Orion sponsorship." I pivot fast because I need him relaxed for the paragraphs I'll write later. "Rumors are everywhere. A big nutrition brand and a new hockey star. Their last guy got dropped after DV charges, so now they're shopping for a new face. Official or not?" "Not yet, but we're close." His eyes light up, the brown warmer than it has been. "But I'm honored, I really am. You know how important proper nutrition is, especially for athletes. To be the face of such a big brand means a lot." Except you won't get it. Three months ago Henry was caught sneaking out of a club with a model while his influencer girlfriend livestreamed her heartbreak to two million followers. The internet ate him alive, sponsors started ghosting, and now this interview is supposed to be his redemption arc. Because companies like Orion don't appreciate scandals. "Big opportunity, too." He shifts forward, elbows on his knees. "For both of us, right? Cover story for your magazine, clean image for my sponsors. Everybody wins." Everybody except you once I write what a piece of shit you actually are, Henry. "So you need me to make you look good?" I know the answer, but having him say it out loud, on the record, is even better than knowing. "I need you to tell the truth." He holds my gaze one beat too long. I don't blink, don't look away, because breaking first is losing. "The truth looks pretty good on me, Renet." My name in his mouth drags down my spine like a nail. I feel every single vertebra light up before I can shut it down. Of course he knows my name. His manager would've sent it over with the press briefing. It doesn't mean he remembers me. Relax. Except I remember him saying my name with so much warmth that it settled into my chest, and I swallowed it like an idiot. For a moment I believed we could genuinely be friends, or even something more. And I remember the cruelty too. How he'd call my name across the school halls the way you'd call a dog that pissed on the carpet. Daring me to turn around so he could make me wish I hadn't. I flinched with my whole body back then. I don't flinch now. "I'll be the judge of that." "I'm counting on it." He winks, actually winks. Fucking show off. I close my notebook with a snap and shift to wrap-up questions. Five more minutes of easy material, and I am good to go. The article will gut him. "Thank you for the interview, Mr. Carter. That's all." I stand and tuck the recorder into my bag. My heels click on the tile as I organize my things, already composing the lede in my head, when his voice comes from too close behind me. "Renet?" His voice hits the back of my neck first, and every hair on my arms stands up. I turn and up closer he's even more devastating. Towering over me that I need to crook my head back, hands in his pockets and head slightly tilted. The same tilt, the same brown eyes, almost the same height that made me feel small in hallways. "You've changed a lot since high school," he says quietly. I freeze on the spot, my hands gripping the straps of my bag. He remembers me, he remembers me, he remembers me… He recognized me. Fuck!