Page 2

Hunter

I’m halfway through my second set of deadlifts when my phone buzzes on the bench.

I let it ring.

It buzzes again. A text this time.

I finish the last rep, drop the bar with a satisfying clang, and grab my phone off the towel.

Fletcher: Hey. Rilee needs a place to stay. I told her to go to you.

I stare at the message.

Re-read it.

Then type out three words.

Me: Are you high?

No response.

Of course.

I run a hand down my face, pacing the garage. Cold air bites at my shoulders, but it’s not the weather making my blood heat.

Rilee.

Fucking Rilee.

I haven’t talked to her in months, and now I’m just supposed to roll out the red carpet? Move her in here?

Uninvited. Chaotic. Probably still wearing those combat boots that stomped all over my last nerve.

I remember the first time I met her. Fletcher dragged her to some team dinner, and the rookies were tripping over themselves trying to sit next to her. She politely side-stepped them and sat between her brother and me.

And I felt it.

A flicker.

Right there in my gut.

I remember thinking, huh —like I’d just tripped a wire I didn’t know was live.

She tilted her head to the side, biting back a grin, and tossed a napkin at one of the rookies without missing a beat. “Ten points for effort. Negative fifty for execution.”

And that was it. I was done .

It wasn’t the kind of reaction you’re supposed to have to your friend’s younger sister.

I spent the rest of that dinner chewing the inside of my cheek and not looking at her mouth. Or her hands. Or the way she lit up when someone brought up her clinicals, and she started talking about blood pressure like it was the most fascinating thing on earth.

I made a decision right then.

Not going there.

Didn’t matter how funny she was. Or how smart. Or hot in that way where you don’t even realize it at first, and then suddenly it’s all you can see.

She was off-limits.

So I locked it down.

Hard.

And I’ve been trying to keep it that way ever since.

And now she’s going to live here?

No. Absolutely not.

Except—

It’s Fletcher. And I owe him everything.

My phone buzzes again. Different name this time.

Grayson: Caleb just told me Rilee’s moving in.

You good?

I stare at that one too.

Grayson’s newer to the team. Transferred in last year from out west—something about a toxic program, a hazing scandal no one talks about but everyone heard rumors about. Never got the full story, and he doesn’t offer it.

But he’s solid. Quiet, dependable. Keeps his head down. Doesn’t chase drama.

Damn good in goal. Unshakable under pressure. Which, coming from me, means something.

Good guy, too. One of the few I’d trust to have my back when shit goes sideways. I’m not surprised he’s checking in.

Am I good?

Hell no.

Having Rilee under the same roof is like tossing a lit match into a room soaked in gasoline.

I’ve wanted her since the night Fletcher got hurt, and I hate myself for it.

Because wanting her feels like betrayal. And letting her in—even a little—would be a huge distraction.

And that’s not a door I’m ready to open.

It’s my senior year. My last shot to get noticed by the pros. I’m already carrying this team on my back, trying to get us to the Frozen Four again.

I don’t have room for distractions.

Especially not ones with big eyes, sharp comebacks, and a habit of invading every corner of my focus without trying.

Rilee Jameson is chaos in a five-foot-four frame, and I need quiet.

I need control.

And she’s the exact opposite of both.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m out of the shower, half-dressed, and still trying to convince myself that this isn’t the worst idea in the history of ideas.

Caleb’s in the kitchen making pancakes like he’s blissfully unaware of the chaos that’s about to invade our lives.

I lean against the counter, watching him work.

He catches me staring and raises a brow. “You’re grumpier than usual. Sleep okay?”

“You have no idea.”

He shrugs, flips a pancake, and says nothing.

The doorbell rings.

I don’t move.

Caleb gives me a look and nods toward it. “You gonna get that?”

I grit my teeth and head to the door, yank it open.

And there she is.

Rilee Jameson. Wearing leggings, an oversized hoodie, and the expression of someone who just lost a bar fight with life itself.

A duffel bag hangs off her shoulder. Her hair’s pulled into a messy bun, and she’s got dried mascara under one eye.

She looks tired.

And hot.

And completely pissed off to see me.

“This is a terrible idea,” she says by way of greeting.

“Great. We agree.”

She pushes past me anyway.

While I remind myself not to stare at her mouth.

I shut the door harder than necessary and turn to find her dropping her duffel on the floor like she’s claiming territory.

Footsteps thud down the hall. Caleb appears, spatula in one hand. He takes one look at Rilee and blinks.

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “Hey. What’s going on?”

She crosses her arms. “Apparently I live here now.”

Caleb looks at me. Then back at her.

Then they share this look—like something unspoken just passed between them—and it punches straight through my chest.

Whatever it is, I don’t like it.

At all.

Caleb rubs the back of his neck. “Well. Uh. Cool. You want pancakes?”

“Seriously?” I snap. “She just barges in, and you’re offering her breakfast?”

“I’m being polite,” he says, maddeningly calm.

“Try being realistic. This house is full. We don’t need drama on top of—”

“I’m not drama,” Rilee says, voice sharp. “I’m desperate, okay? My apartment flooded. Campus housing is full. This is hopefully temporary, just until I can figure something else out.”

Her phone buzzes. She ignores it.

The room goes quiet.

Then a door opens down the hall, and Grayson appears. Sleepy and in sweatpants, his hair’s a mess.

His gaze sweeps the room, lands on Rilee, and lingers. No expression. Just… watching.

“This is Grayson,” Caleb says. “Goalie. Doesn’t talk much.”

Grayson nods once. “Hey.”

Rilee blinks. “Hi.”

They hold eye contact for one second too long.

I clear my throat. Loudly.

“Tour?” Caleb asks, already stepping past me. “Come on. You should see the upstairs before Hunter has a coronary.”

She snorts, grabs her bag, and follows him. Grayson trails behind them without a word.

I don’t move.

I just stand there.

Watching her disappear down the hall like a storm we just invited inside.