My Lustful Arrangement With The Hockey Player

ISABELLA

I never thought I'd be here, fleeing home in search of greener pastures, only to find myself working more jobs than a human should legally be allowed to handle. The American Dream? A scam. A beautiful, glittering scam.

Back home, I imagined my future self sipping mimosas by a penthouse window, laughing at my past struggles while my friends partied inside. Instead, I was speed-running life as a waitress, bartender, and occasionally a human coat rack when drunk men mistook me for a decorative piece. But hey, at least I had variety.

Tonight, I was late. Again.

I tumbled out of the cab, my heel catching on the pavement. "¡Mierda!" I cursed under my breath in Spanish, catching myself before I face-planted. The driver shot me a look before speeding off, but probably thanking his lucky stars, I was no longer his problem.

The event hall loomed ahead-grand, glittering, and filled with the kind of people who probably never had to check their bank balances before ordering a drink. A sports event, which meant two things: stunning models with legs for days and men with enough muscles to double as furniture.

I pushed through the crowd, dodging six-foot-tall beauties and athletes laughing too loudly. A model in a tight red dress eyed me like I'd personally offended her by existing, and I flashed her a quick, polite smile before slipping past.

My apron was halfway around my waist when I reached the staff entrance. If my temporary boss saw me now, I was done. Fired. On the streets. Probably resorting to selling lemonade from a cart like some tragic movie character.

I ducked behind a group of servers and secured my apron. One crisis avoided.

"Took you long enough," a voice sneered beside me.

I turned to find Tiffany, the human embodiment of a headache, smirking at me. Why the fuck did I have to meet her here again? The last time we worked at this charity event, I nearly beat her up, but I had to remind myself that I was here in the US and could get charged and probably deported. She flipped her blonde ponytail, eyes filled with delight.

"You sound like a cartoon," I mused, deadpan.

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing." I snatched my tray and turned away. I had rent to pay, I couldn't afford to waste energy on a girl who thought 'exotic' was a compliment.

The night blurred into a rhythm of taking orders, dodging drunk hands, and trying not to think about how exhausted I was.

After I was done serving a couple of people drinks and sniffing out the perfumes I had inhaled, I turned a corner, my body nearly giving out with fatigue before colliding with a wall.

No-wait. A man.

A very tall, very solid man.

My tray clattered to the floor, champagne flutes shattering. I sucked in a breath, already preparing for impact-someone was about to yell at me, and I was about to apologize profusely to keep my job. And obviously get a cut from my pay for the damages I obviously didn't fully play a part in.

But he didn't yell.

Instead, he swayed slightly, blinking down at me with the kind of lazy smirk that suggested he was either heavily intoxicated or naturally that smooth.

"Didn't see you there, cariño," he murmured. His voice was deep, slurred just enough to confirm my suspicions.

My gaze traveled upward. Dark brown hair, tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed. Chiseled jaw, a hint of stubble. And then-his eyes. Blue. A deep, piercing blue that made me momentarily forget how much I hated my job.

I took a step back, hands up. "You're drunk."

He chuckled, tilting his head. "And you're beautiful."

Oh, boy.

People were already watching. I needed to get him out of sight before my boss spotted him using me as a leaning post.

I grabbed his wrist, firm but not unkind. "Come on, let's get you somewhere quiet before you embarrass yourself."

To my surprise, he didn't resist. He let me guide him through the hall, away from the flashing cameras and judging eyes.

When we reached a dimly lit hallway, he exhaled dramatically. "If you wanted to be alone with me, you could've just said so."

I rolled my eyes. "Right, because my dream is to babysit a drunk stranger in a dark hallway."

His laugh was rich, unbothered. "You're funny. I like that."

I helped him sit on a nearby bench, his body brushing against mine in a way that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. I pulled away quickly, clearing my throat.

"Stay here until you sober up."

I turned to leave, but before I could take a step, his fingers wrapped gently around my wrist.

"Stay," he murmured.

I hesitated. "I have a job. A very underpaid, exhausting job that I might lose if my boss catches me slacking."

He grinned, his gaze darkening. "Don't worry about it."

I arched my brow. "Oh, sure. I'll just tell my landlord that some guy told me not to worry about rent. That should work."

His laugh was low, warm. "It's a lifetime opportunity."

I snorted and rolled my eyes. "You sound like a scam. Not convincing enough."

His hand slid down to mine, his thumb brushing over my palm. The touch was light, teasing, but it sent an unexpected warmth through me.

"I don't do scams," he said smoothly.

I swallowed. Hard.

I hadn't felt like a woman in a long time. I'd been too busy surviving, too caught up in the grind of making ends meet. But this man-this smooth-talking, ridiculously attractive man-made me forget.

His fingers traced idle patterns along my wrist, his touch confident yet unhurried, like he was waiting for me to pull away.

I didn't.

I should have. But I didn't.

I had to get back to work. I had to make some meagre money to keep me till the next fucking day, but that didn't matter right now. Not when I was blessed with the attention of this really good looking man. Now, I understand why men like these get into women's skirts so easily.

His gaze lingered on my lips. "Tell me to stop."

I opened my mouth to say what, I wasn't sure.

But then he kissed me.

Soft at first, like he was testing the waters. Then deeper, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

And damn it, I let him.

Heat coiled in my stomach, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He tasted like whiskey and something else, something

intoxicating in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.

"You're beautiful," he murmured against my lips. "So damn exotic."

I rolled my eyes even as I kissed him back. "You rich guys really need to find a new word."

He laughed, a low, delicious sound, before pulling me closer.

One moment, we were in a dark hallway, stealing kisses like teenagers. The next, we were stumbling into his suite -sprawling, luxurious, a world away from the tiny apartment I called home.

Clothes hit the floor. Skin met skin.

For the first time in forever, I wasn't just surviving. I was living.

And if I wasn't getting paid tonight, at least I got the best damn experience of my life.

ISABELLA

I woke up in a bed that wasn't mine.

The sheets were silk, cool against my bare skin, so smooth they felt like liquid luxury. For a long second, I lay there, my mind tangled in the fog of sleep, my body sore in places I hadn't felt in a long time. Then, like a slap to the face, it hit me.

I'd let a man have his way with me. Without a fight. No overthinking, no self-sabotage, no last-minute exit strategy. Just... me, him, and a night of reckless passion.

I exhaled sharply and turned over, expecting to see him beside me, but the bed was empty. A tiny, pathetic part of me was relieved. Because if he were still here, wide awake, looking at me like a mistake he didn't want to make again, I wouldn't have known what to say.

I sat up, clutching the sheets to my chest, and glanced around. The suite was massive. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed a breathtaking city view, the kind you only saw in magazines. The morning light poured in, illuminating sleek, modern furniture, all in deep, masculine tones-charcoal grays, blacks, and rich browns.

To my left, a sitting area featured an L-shaped couch so big it could double as a guest bed. A glass coffee table sat in front of it, a whiskey decanter perched on top, next to an expensive-looking watch.

Sports memorabilia decorated the walls-signed jerseys framed in black, a gleaming trophy in a glass case, and an autographed basketball on a shelf. The man I'd slept with wasn't just rich. He was someone. An athlete, maybe. Or someone who lived and breathed sports.

A ridiculous laugh bubbled in my throat. Only I would have a one-night stand with someone wildly out of my league and not even get his name.

I got out of bed, my legs still unsteady. Spotting my crumpled dress on the floor, I pulled it on, wincing as I smoothed out the wrinkles. My worn-out shoes were by the couch, and my tattered purse on the marble counter near the minibar. Grabbing them, I took one last look around before making my exit.

I stepped into the elevator, inhaling the faint scent of cologne that clung to my skin. The ride down was silent, but the second the doors slid open, I was reminded of exactly where I was.

The lobby oozed wealth. A massive chandelier hung overhead, its crystals catching the light. The air smelled of fresh roses, expensive perfume, and polished wood. People moved with an effortless grace.

I pulled my purse strap higher, suddenly hyper-aware of my cheap dress, the smudged eyeliner under my eyes, the way I stuck out like a sore thumb.

The doorman gave me a once-over but didn't say anything as I slipped outside. Cold air hit my skin, waking me up completely.

Time to go home.

Home wasn't a high-rise hotel with a view of the skyline. It wasn't silk sheets, crystal chandeliers, or whiskey decanters.

It was a cramped apartment in a building that smelled of fried food and regret and so much misery I wanted to barf at the thought of it. I had only spent one night away from my home, and I felt the difference and didn't want to return.

As I walked through the streets, the shift in the atmosphere was jarring. The roads were cracked, littered with cigarette butts and crushed soda cans. Streetlights flickered weakly, barely illuminating the figures loitering on corners.

A group of men whistled as I passed.

"Where you going, mami?" one called, his voice thick with suggestion.

I ignored him, walking faster.

"Hey, don't be like that," another chuckled. "We just wanna talk."

I turned a corner, heart pounding. This wasn't the life I envisioned. I'd come here chasing something better, yet here I was-dodging catcalls in a neighbourhood that felt more like a trap than a stepping stone.

Finally, I reached my building. The moment I saw my door, my stomach sank. A bright orange notice was taped to it.

FINAL NOTICE: RENT PAYMENT IMMEDIATELY OR EVICTION WILL PROCEED.

I groaned, ripping it down. Of course. Because one night of pleasure meant reality had to slap me twice as hard.

I stepped inside, tossing my purse on the couch. The walls were thin, so I could hear my neighbor yelling at someone over the phone. The faucet in my kitchen dripped, the air smelled faintly of mildew, and the ceiling had a crack that grew longer every time it rained.

Collapsing onto my bed, I stared at the ceiling.

I needed a better job.

****

And for the next few days, I job-hunted like my life depended on it, because it did.

I scoured online listings, handed out resumes, even considered picking up extra shifts at the bar. Just when I was about to lose hope, an agency posted a vacancy. I applied immediately, and by some miracle, I got an email.

Interview scheduled for tomorrow.

For the first time in weeks, I went to bed with a little bit of hope.

The next morning, I dressed in the best outfit I could put together, cheap but decent. It wasn't a designer, but it was clean, pressed, and made me look employable.

The agency's lobby was sleek, modern, and definitely somewhere rich people visited. Why did everything remind me of my impoverished life? I almost let the thought weigh me down enough to have me turning back and going home, but I beat it out of my system and approached the receptionist, a blonde woman who barely looked up from her nails.

"Excuse me," I said politely. "I'm here for an interview. Where should I wait?"

She glanced at me, lips curling in distaste. "Sit anywhere. If they bother calling you."

I blinked. "Right. Thanks for the warm welcome."

She scoffed, turning away.

Before I could sit, a woman rushed in, clipboard in hand. She looked frazzled, eyes scanning the room until they landed on me.

"You," she said. "Come with me."

I hesitated. "Me?"

"Yes, you. The old cleaner left without a word, and there's a lot to do."

I stared at her. Then at my clothes. Then back at her.

Oh.

She thought I was the cleaner.

I let out a breathy laugh, looking down at myself. Well, that was humbling. And she was definitely right.

"Um," I said, "I thought there would be an interv-"

"How soon can you start?" she interrupted.

I sighed. "Right now, I guess."

"Great. Let's go."

Turns out, the job paid more than my previous ones combined. I wasn't about to complain.

The staff, however, sucked. Most were snobby, looking at me like I was invisible. But I kept my head down, focused on scrubbing floors, wiping down desks, and pretending I wasn't dying inside.

By the end of my shift, exhaustion clung to me like a second skin. I grabbed my bucket, ready to leave when I heard a voice.

It was deep, commanding, and so damn familiar. I felt myself being transported back to that night.

I froze.

My stomach flipped, a strange déjà vu sweeping over me. I knew that voice.

Slowly, I turned the corner and crashed straight into him. It was the man from that night. The nameless man I had let seduce me, and I damn well recognised him.

"Shit."

ISABELLA

Like a deer in the headlights, I was frozen. I knew I should hide, but I couldn't even move. My stomach twisted, but I kept my head down, pretending I was deeply fascinated by the floor. Maybe if I just-

"You look familiar."

Dios mío.

I forced my muscles not to stiffen, but my hands clenched the mop tighter. There was something irritatingly smooth about his voice, like a man who was used to women melting at the mere sound of it. I could already picture his stupidly perfect face, those sharp blue eyes that had looked up at me through the dim lighting of his penthouse suite.

I lifted my head slightly, offering a bland look. "Do I?"

He tilted his head, scrutinizing me like I was a puzzle missing its last piece. The tailored suit he wore was worth more than my monthly rent, and he looked so put together, so utterly different from the drunk, shameless flirt I had dragged down his hallway.

I turned, intent on escaping before recognition fully struck, but before I could take a step, his hand shot out, catching my wrist.

"Wait."

His fingers were warm, his grip firm but not forceful. My pulse jumped annoyingly at the contact, and I bit the inside of my cheek.

His gaze sharpened, and then his lips curled into something annoyingly smug.

"You're the one."

I sighed through my nose. "And so what?"

That surprised him. A flicker of amusement crossed his face before he let out a laugh, low and genuine. "I like that answer."

I jerked my wrist free, adjusting my grip on the mop. "Good for you."

His eyes dropped to my uniform, and I knew the question was coming before he even opened his mouth.

"Why are you cleaning?"

I blinked at him, feigning shock. "What? You mean why don't I come from a long line of hotel heiresses?"

His lips twitched.

I tilted my head. "Why do you think so? The night we fu-" I caught myself, glancing around the empty hallway before lowering my voice, "-the night we met, I was working as a waitress. That didn't clue you in?"

Realization dawned on his face, and it took everything in me not to roll my eyes.

"Oh," he said.

I snorted. "There it is."

He ignored my sarcasm. "What's your name?"

I lifted a brow. "Didn't care to ask before?"

He leaned in slightly, like I was suddenly very interesting. "I was a little preoccupied. My name's Logan, by the way. What's yours?"

"I-Isabella."

"Isabella. Would sound so good when I'm about to orgasm."

I hated that my skin prickled at his proximity. I hated that I still remembered exactly how his lips felt against mine, how his hands had explored every inch of my body. I hated that standing this close to him made my breath hitch, even though I had zero intention of repeating that night.

I took a step back. "I have work to do."

"Not yet."

I narrowed my eyes. "Not yet?"

His smirk deepened. "See me in my office."

I let out a dry laugh. "You're funny."

His gaze didn't waver. "I wasn't joking."

A part of me wanted to walk away just to be difficult, but curiosity won out.

His office was just as I imagined, huge, expensive, and designed for intimidation. The air smelled like leather and something distinctly him, a mix of cedarwood and arrogance.

I didn't sit.

He, on the other hand, made himself comfortable behind his desk, watching me like I was a particularly fascinating challenge.

I crossed my arms. "Alright. What do you want?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood and walked around the desk, his movements slow and deliberate.

"Do you always talk like that?" he mused.

"Like what?"

He stopped right in front of me, close enough that I could see the hint of amusement in his eyes. "Like you're ready to bite."

"Only when people get in my way."

His fingers brushed against my arm lightly and teasing. A test. My breath caught before I could stop it, and I swore his smirk deepened.

I scoffed, stepping back. "You're touchy, aren't you?"

"I don't hear you complaining."

My eyes narrowed. "Because I'm too busy regretting my life choices."

He chuckled, but there was something sharper in his gaze now, something hungry.

And damn it, I felt it, too.

For days, it continued. Every time I tried to keep my head down, he was there, watching, teasing, and cornering me in ways that made my heart race. The tension between us was a tangible thing, thick in the air, impossible to ignore.

One afternoon, after another one of his lingering touches, I finally snapped.

"I'm not sleeping with my boss," I said firmly.

He lifted a brow, looking entirely too amused. "Is that what you think this is?"

"I know that's what this is."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded, as if he'd come to a decision. "Then let's change the terms."

I frowned. "What?"

His gaze didn't waver. "A proposal."

I let out a dry laugh. "If this is some twisted way of getting me to date you-"

"It's not."

That caught me off guard.

His voice was smooth, measured. "I'm not looking for a relationship."

Something in me bristled. "Wow. That makes two of us."

He smirked. "Good. Then you won't have a problem with this."

He stepped closer, his presence swallowing up all the space between us. My back hit the wall, and his hands caged me on either side.

He leaned down, his lips a breath away from mine. "I'll pay you."

I blinked. "What?"

"Every time we sleep together."

For a moment, I just stared at him. "Are you serious?"

He nodded.

The idea should have disgusted me. Should have sent me storming out of his office.

But...

Rent. Bills. Food.

And, let's be honest, it wasn't like I didn't want him.

I tilted my head, studying him. "And what do you get out of it?"

His blue eyes darkened. "You."

A shiver ran down my spine.

For a moment, we just stood there, the air thick with something electric, something neither of us could ignore.

Finally, I exhaled, pushing against his chest just enough to make space between us.

"Fine."

A slow, triumphant smirk spread across his face, and just like that, the deal was made.

At first, it was just sex, or at least, that's what we told ourselves, but the tension between us never faded. It only grew. We resisted, only to end up in compromising positions, so many near-misses that left us breathless and on edge.

Eventually, we stopped pretending.

We met in secret. Stolen moments. Hidden encounters, and every time, I told myself it didn't mean anything.

Every time, I told myself this was just survival, but somewhere, deep down, I knew that I was playing with fire.