Page 3

Rilee

The house is bigger than I expected.

Spacious. Clean-ish. That specific brand of male-chaotic tidy, like someone tried but also thinks Febreze counts as a cleaning strategy.

Caleb leads the way upstairs, his voice easy. “There’s one spare room—technically it’s a guest room, but it has a bed, a closet, and blackout curtains, so that’s a win.”

“Does it have a ceiling that won’t collapse on my head?”

“Mostly,” he says with a grin.

Grayson follows behind me, silent as a shadow. I glance back at him once—just to be polite—and find him watching me with that unreadable intensity.

Like he’s not seeing me, exactly. More like… studying me.

I look away before I can do something weird, like blush.

Caleb opens the door to the spare room and gestures dramatically. “Welcome to your humble oasis. Ignore the pile of jerseys on the chair. And the broken lamp. And the suspicious dent in the wall.”

I step inside and drop my bag. The room is small but warm, with wood floors and a decent-sized window. It smells like linen and Axe body spray, which is surprisingly comforting in a male-college-household kind of way.

“It’s perfect,” I say, turning in a slow circle. “Does it come with complimentary mental breakdowns, or are those extra?”

Caleb smirks. “We run a full-service operation here.” Then he gathers up the pile of jerseys.

Grayson steps into the doorway, arms crossed, pinning me in place with that heavy stare. “You need help unpacking?”

I blink. “Oh. Uh, no. I’m good.”

He nods once. Doesn’t move.

There’s a silence—not uncomfortable, exactly. Just thick with something I can’t name.

“You’re quiet,” I say, because apparently I can’t help myself.

Grayson shrugs. “You’re not.”

I should be offended. Instead, I smile.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He says nothing. But his mouth twitches like maybe—just maybe—he’s holding back a grin.

Caleb claps his hands. “All right. Bathroom’s down the hall. You’ll share it with Grayson and me, which sounds worse than it is. Just don’t touch the hair stuff in the left drawer. That’s his.”

Grayson adds, “And don’t leave wet towels on the floor.”

“I’ve lived with girls,” I tell them. “This can’t possibly be worse.”

Famous last words.

Back downstairs, I hear a cupboard slam. Hard.

Hunter.

Caleb catches my eye. “Ignore him. He’s always like that.”

“I’ve

noticed.”Grayson leans against the wall, still watching me. “You gonna be okay here?”

It’s a simple question. But something in the way he asks it makes me pause.

I nod slowly. “Yeah. I think I might be.”

It’s not ideal, but considering this morning I had no idea what I was going to do, it sure beats being homeless.

Unpacking can wait.

I’m halfway to emotionally flatlining, and all I want is something carby and comforting. Maybe popcorn. Maybe pizza. Maybe a hard reset on the entire past twenty-four hours. Tomorrow I’ll go to the store and replenish whatever I ate, stock up on some basics.

I head downstairs barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands. The lights are mostly off, but the glow from the living room flickers through the hallway.

A voice carries—low, serious.

Hunter.

I freeze at the bottom step.

“No, she’s fine,” he’s saying, tight and clipped. “Yeah. She got here about an hour ago.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t worry.”

My jaw tightens.

Because, of course, Fletcher told him to watch me like I’m some glass figurine that’ll shatter if I blink too hard.

I step into the living room.

Hunter’s on the couch, sleeves shoved up, jaw tense as hell. He spots me and immediately hangs up, tossing his phone onto the cushion like it offended him.

I raise a brow. “You keepin’ an eye on me already, or do I get a grace period?”

His expression hardens. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Trust me, this isn’t exactly my dream vacation either.”

He stands, taller than I remembered, all sharp edges and barely leashed irritation.

His hair’s longer now, like he hasn’t bothered to cut it in a while. There’s stubble along his jaw, and it shouldn’t be hot—but, of course, it is.

Everything about him is too sharp. Too intense. Too Hunter .

And I hate that I still notice.

That somewhere in the back of my traitorous brain, I’m remembering the way he used to laugh when Fletcher dragged him over for game nights. How I used to catch myself watching him when I was supposed to be doing homework.

I had a thing for him once. Stupid of me.

He made it very clear he wasn’t interested—in me or in staying part of my brother’s life after things got hard.

Now all that’s left is this jagged tension between us and the heat I refuse to admit is still there.

“This house is supposed to be our zone. Focused. No distractions.”

“Wow,” I say, arms crossed. “Didn’t realize my mere existence was that disruptive.”

He glares. “You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I don’t.” I take a step closer, fueled by exhaustion and spite. “Please, enlighten me, Maddox. What are the rules for coexisting with your walking catastrophe of a houseguest?”

His jaw ticks. “Don’t hook up with anyone.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re not here to get cozy with my teammates. This isn’t a rom-com; it’s a hockey house.”

Heat rises to my face. “First of all, gross. Second, what I do is none of your business.”

“It is when it messes with my team.”

“Oh, your team? Is that what this is about?” I snap. “Afraid I’ll distract them with my feminine wiles?”

His mouth twitches—like he wants to say something brutal but isn’t sure if it’ll land.

I close the distance, just enough to make him uncomfortable. “Here’s a thought: if your focus is that fragile, maybe you’re the one who’s not ready for the pros.”

He stares at me, breathing harder than before, tension rolling off him in waves.

For a second—just a second—I think he’s going to grab me. Kiss me. Shove me against the wall, and tell me exactly how distracting I am.

But then he blinks, steps back, and mutters, “Stay out of my way, Rilee.”

He storms off down the hall.

And I’m left there, flushed and furious, with a heart that won’t settle.

By the time I make it to the kitchen, I’m still vibrating with leftover fury. Hunter’s words are lodged in my ribs like splinters, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You’re not here to get cozy with my teammates.

I don’t know what pisses me off more—the arrogance or the assumption.

The fridge hums. The lights are dim. The silence creeps under my skin.

I’m mid-stare into the freezer, debating if frozen waffles count as emotional support, when a voice says behind me, “Please tell me you’re not considering ice cream for dinner.”

I flinch, slam the freezer shut, and turn.

Caleb leans against the doorway, barefoot in joggers and a T-shirt that clings to his chest. His hair is messy in the front, doing that cute boy swoopy thing. He’s stupid hot.

“I wasn’t,” I lie. “I was considering it for dessert. After my waffle entrée.”

He grins, then holds up a bag. “Thought you might be hungry. Brought you a turkey melt and fries.”

I blink. “Did you—did you go out just now?”

“Yeah. Ran to the market on the corner.” He sets the wrapped sandwich in front of me, pulls out a chair, and sits, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I hover awkwardly for a second before I drop into the seat across from him.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to.” He shrugs. “You’ve had a crap day. And you’re stuck in testosterone central with a bunch of emotionally constipated hockey players. Someone’s gotta be nice to you.”

I pick up a fry. “So you drew the short straw?”

He laughs. “Nah. I volunteered.”

My chest does something it probably shouldn’t.

I take a bite of the sandwich, and he watches me like he’s gauging whether I’m about to cry or throw something. Or both.

“Hunter can be a dick,” he says, voice gentler now. “He’s… intense. And wound up tighter than a goalie’s hamstrings. But he’s not a bad guy.”

“Sure has a way of… hiding it.”

Caleb nods. “He’s under a lot of pressure. Feels like he has to carry everything—his team, his future, everyone’s expectations. Sometimes that weight makes him push people away.” He nudges my knee under the table. “That doesn’t mean you deserve to be on the receiving end of it.”

I chew slowly, unsure what to say to that.

He nudges my plate closer. “Look, I know he came at you hard. Hunter’s not… great with new variables.”

I arch a brow. “I’m a variable now?”

“You moved into his space,” he says gently. “He thrives on control. Especially this year—with scouts watching, Frozen Four pressure, the team riding on his back. You showing up? It shook him.”

“Glad I could ruin his vibe.”

He chuckles. “You didn’t ruin anything. He’ll adjust. He just needs time.”

I swirl a fry in ketchup, then pause. “Do you always clean up his messes?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t clean up for him. I just know when he’s full of shit. And when someone deserves to know it’s not about them.”

My throat tightens. Caleb’s not just sweet—he sees people. Even when they don’t want to be seen.

Then he adds, lips quirking, “For what it’s worth, he’s not mad at you. Just mad there’s something he can’t control.”

I glance at him. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He shrugs, easy and warm. “Nope. Just figured you deserved to hear that.”

God, he’s charming.

And dangerous.

And probably the exact kind of soft place I would want to fall when everything else is spiraling.

Which is exactly why I say, “About the other night…”

His brows lift, looking a little hopeful. “Yeah?”

“I think… maybe we shouldn’t. I mean—finish what we started.”

A beat. Then he nods. Easy. No pressure. “Because of Hunter?”

“That,” I admit. “And also just… this is complicated. I’m living here. I don’t want to make things messier than they already are.”

“Totally fair.” He kicks back in his chair, stretches his legs. “Doesn’t mean I won’t flirt with you, though.”

I groan. “You’re impossible.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

We fall into an easier silence. He steals a fry. I let him.

After a while, he asks, “You want to study?”

“Really?” I ask.

He nods. “I’ve got an econ assignment due tomorrow. And if you need someone to quiz you on flashcards or whatever, I’m your guy.”

I hesitate. Then nod.

Because this? It’s good. Safe. Something I need more than I realized.

“Come on,” he says after dinner. “Grab your stuff; we can study in my room.”

I blink. “Okay.”

He grins. “Trust me. Comfiest place in the house.”

I haven’t seen his room, but now I’m curious.

I follow him upstairs, grab my backpack, and check my appearance in the mirror above the dresser. I pull my hair from the bun and let it fall over my shoulders. Dark brown waves that I try to tame with my fingers. I swipe under my eyes—just in case—and smooth the hem of my sweatshirt.

The oversized clothes don’t hide much. Not with leggings clinging to every curve and bare feet padding softly over the hardwood floor.

I head to the end of the hall to his room, which is warm and lived-in without being gross.

It smells like clean laundry and something that might be sandalwood—comfortable and distinctly him.

The walls are a deep gray, one corner lined with battered books and a lopsided trophy shelf.

His bed is king-sized and covered in a dark blue comforter, the kind that looks soft enough to live in.

There’s a pair of hockey gloves on the floor, a hoodie slung over the back of a desk chair, and an old acoustic guitar in the corner that I wouldn’t have guessed he played.

He clears a few stray socks off the bed, tossing them into a hamper. “Make yourself at home.”

I settle onto the edge while he pulls out a couple of extra pillows and props them behind me.

I flip open my textbook.

“I’ll quiz you.”

I raise a brow. “You don’t know anything about OB nursing.”

“True. But I’m excellent at nodding thoughtfully and telling you you’re doing amazing.”

I snort. “Fine. But if I fail this quiz, I’m blaming you and your distracting face.”

“Totally fair,” he says, settling beside me, legs stretched out.

I try to focus. I really do. But the bed is warm, the lights are dim, and he’s just there —smelling good and being helpful and laughing at my muttered curses when I forget the magnesium sulfate range.

At one point, he leans in to read something over my shoulder, and my brain short-circuits at the proximity.

“You’re really good at this,” he says quietly, like it’s a secret. “Even when you’re half-asleep and running on fumes.”

Something inside me softens. And that’s the danger.

That’s how we end up here—on his bed, both of us not moving, not speaking, just waiting .

His gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers.

His voice lowers. “Are you sure we shouldn’t finish what we started?”

My breath hitches. “I…”

And then—

A throat clears from the hallway.

We jerk apart.

Grayson stands in the doorway, shadowed and still, like he’s been there long enough to see our almost kiss.

“The bathroom’s free,” he says, then disappears.

The silence he leaves behind is thick.

Caleb blows out a breath. “Well. That wasn’t awkward at all.”

I drop my head into my hands. “I hate my life.”

He laughs, quiet and warm. “Nah, it’s just starting to get interesting.”