Page 41

Rilee

By the time Fletcher’s Uber pulls up two days later, my ankle’s mostly healed, my nerves are frayed, and every guy in this house looks like he’s preparing for a bomb to detonate.

Grayson straightened every pillow in the living room three times.

Hunter’s cleaned the kitchen twice—even though he hates cleaning—and hasn’t spoken more than two words since breakfast.

Caleb?

He’s practically glowing.

“This is going to be great,” he says, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet like he’s about to accept a game-day puck drop. “We’re totally pulling this off.”

I send him a flat look. “You’re too confident. Tone it down or he’ll smell the performance.”

Caleb grins. “You love my performances.”

Before I can tell him to shut up, Fletcher’s at the door, grinning like he’s just landed on shore after months lost at sea.

He looks good. Better than I’ve seen him in a long time.

He’s filled out again—broad shoulders under a fitted sweatshirt, scruff along his jaw trimmed neat. His eyes are clearer too, steadier. Less haunted. Like some of the weight he’s been dragging around finally got set down.

He still walks like an athlete, even if he’s not back on the ice. Confident, grounded, but always scanning the room like he’s reading a play before it happens. He looks more like himself. Like the version I remember from before everything broke.

And when he sees me, his whole face softens.

“Ri,” he says, pulling me into a hug that’s just slightly too tight for someone still recovering from a sprained ankle. “You look good.”

“You look… better,” I say, tugging him inside. “Like not in danger of tackling someone out of withdrawal.”

He snorts. “Baby steps.”

“Boys,” Fletcher says, stepping into the living room where everyone’s gathered, watching.

Caleb’s the first to greet him, pulling him into a quick bro-hug, followed by a fist bump. “Good to see you, man. You look solid.”

“You too,” Fletcher replies, clapping his shoulder like a coach checking for muscle tone.

Grayson gives a nod and a firm handshake, the quiet respect between them clear but not overstated.

Hunter lingers near the wall, arms crossed, but steps forward just long enough to bump knuckles and say, “You’re taller than I remember.”

“You’re still just as grumpy as I remember,” Fletcher shoots back with a crooked grin.

The tension isn’t gone, but for a moment it’s buried under old rhythms—like muscle memory from seasons past.

Then Fletcher takes a slow turn around the room. His gaze lands on the couch. Then the hallway. Then me.

The questions are already loading behind his eyes.

And I feel my stomach drop like it knows what’s coming.

“This where you all hang out?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, trying for casual.

“You all share a bathroom?”

I blink. “Um, two. One upstairs, one down.”

His brow lifts. “You mean you and three guys share two bathrooms?”

I smile tightly. “It’s a bonding experience.”

Fletcher glances between them. His gaze lingers just a second too long when Caleb stands a little too close to me. When I pass him a drink and our hands brush. When Caleb catches my eye and winks.

“Okay,” Fletcher says finally. “What’s going on?”

“We…” I glance at Caleb.

He nods, steps forward.

“Can we sit?” Caleb says, unusually serious.

Fletcher drops onto the couch. Arms crossed. Silent. His older-brother energy radiates off him like heat.

I sit beside him.

Caleb stands in front of us.

“We wanted to tell you something,” he says. “It’s not a big thing, really. It’s new. But… I’m seeing Rilee.”

Fletcher’s face doesn’t move.

“Like… dating,” I add, in case he missed the obvious.

Still nothing.

Caleb clears his throat. “It’s real. And I care about her. A lot. And I promise—I’ll be good to her.”

Fletcher exhales slowly.

Then leans back.

And glares.

Not at me.

At Caleb.

“So let me get this straight,” Fletcher says slowly, narrowing his eyes at Caleb. “My little sister—my baby sister—who is studying her ass off to become a nurse and doesn’t have time to breathe—is now dating my teammate?”

“I promise I’m not here to add to her stress load,” Caleb says quickly.

Fletcher’s jaw ticks.

His eyes don’t leave Caleb’s.

“I can tell you one thing,” he says, voice low. “I don’t fucking like it. Ri’s all I’ve got in this world.”

The words land like a punch.

Hard. Heavy.

My throat goes tight.

Because for all his protectiveness, all his bluster—underneath it, Fletcher’s just a guy who’s lost too much already. A decent childhood. Hockey. His college scholarship. Most of his friends… And I’m the only piece he’s still holding onto.

I reach over and rest my hand on his arm. “I know,” I whisper. “I’m still yours, Fletch. You’re still mine.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Just exhales slow, like he’s trying to unclench from the inside out.

Hunter, bless him, mumbles from across the room, “Told you this was a bad idea.”

Grayson doesn’t speak. Just watches. Eyes sharp. Back straight.

Fletcher rubs his jaw, still glaring at Caleb like he’s working out whether or not murder charges would stick.

“Just promise me,” he finally says, voice tight, “you’re not going to hurt her.”

Caleb nods once. “I swear.”

Fletcher exhales again and leans forward, elbows on knees. Then says, to no one in particular, “I’m gonna need pie and like four drinks before I even try to unpack this.”

And just like that, the room exhales with him.

But I know better than to celebrate our victory.

Later that night, we end up at Woody’s.

It’s familiar. Loud. Smells like old whiskey and someone’s questionable life choices, which makes it perfect for hiding whatever weird tension is radiating off our group like solar flares.

Fletcher sits across from me and sips a water, eyes sharp and sweeping—cataloging everything, especially us .

Caleb’s doing his usual thing: grinning, leaning into every joke, throwing fries at Hunter with reckless glee. “If this doesn’t earn me ‘Boyfriend of the Year,’ I’m filing a complaint.”

Hunter grunts. “You’re lucky I don’t pour ranch in your lap.”

Grayson, sitting to my right, watches the exchange with a quiet smile, fingers idly spinning a toothpick between his knuckles.

He hasn’t said much, but every once in a while, I feel his knee bump against mine—just enough to make me wonder if it’s on purpose.

With Grayson, you never really know until you do .

And then there’s Hunter. On my other side.

His hand finds my knee under the table like it’s magnetic. At first, just resting there. Then a slow sweep of his thumb over the inside, subtle. But not accidental .

My breath catches.

Fletcher’s eyes snap to me.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” I croak.

Hunter’s hand pauses. Lingers.

I glare at him—but it’s half-hearted, because my pulse is doing cartwheels and I’m not sure if I want to tell him to stop or move higher .

Fletcher is still watching.

Caleb swoops in with perfect distraction timing. “See how she just orders fries without asking me? That’s couple synergy right there. Real relationships are built on shared carbs.”

Grayson, dry as ever, leans in. “You also said that about your last roommate.”

Caleb smirks. “Yeah, well. He wasn’t as cute.”

Grayson leans in, murmuring just for me, “You’re flushed.”

I turn to him, heart stammering. “Am I?”

“Only when you’re flustered.” His tone is mild, unreadable. But the corners of his mouth tug up like he knows exactly what’s happening under the table.

Hunter’s thumb starts moving again.

My eyes widen.

Fletcher clears his throat loudly.

“Do you guys always sit this close?” he asks, flat and suspicious, eyes narrowing at Grayson, then Hunter, then Caleb, then me.

We all freeze like deer caught in high beams.

Caleb recovers first. “Yeah, we’re a tight-knit household. Emphasis on tight.” He reaches for a fry. “Lots of bonding. It’s all very wholesome.”

Grayson sips his drink, silent.

Hunter doesn’t move his hand. If anything, his grip tightens slightly.

And Fletcher?

Fletcher leans back. Crosses his arms.

And keeps watching.

We make it home with Fletcher still stiff in suspicion mode and me riding shotgun in a full-body daze.

Because what even was that?

Hunter’s hand on my knee. Grayson’s voice in my ear. Caleb winking like he’s the one actually winning. Fletcher sipping a water, watching everything like a hawk.

Back at home, I help Fletcher get settled on the pullout couch.

I toss him a pillow, then a folded blanket from the hall closet. “You good?”

He nods, fluffing the pillow a little too aggressively. “Yeah. This is great. Thanks, Ri.”

“Need anything else?”

“Nope. All good.” He stretches out with a content sigh, then pauses, eyes softening as he looks up at me. “Hey. I’m proud of you, you know?”

I freeze.

His voice is quiet now. Sincere.

“You’re working your ass off. Chasing something real. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders—even if your taste in men is questionable,” he adds with a smirk.

I try to laugh, but it comes out thin.

“Goodnight, Ri.”

“’Night, Fletch.”

I step away before I crumble completely.

Because that’s the thing about being loved like that—it makes lying feel even worse.

I kick off my shoes, step into my room, and exhale—

Only for Caleb to knock on the doorframe half a second later.

He grins like he’s already forgiven me for the kick under the table. “Just wanted to say goodnight to my girlfriend.”

I narrow my eyes. “Is that code for something?”

He steps closer, wraps his arms around my waist, and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “Code for this.”

It’s sweet.

Warm.

Predictably Caleb. My heart soars.

He pulls back. “Sleep tight, princess.”

He walks out just as Hunter appears in the hallway.

They exchange a brief, silent standoff.

Then Hunter steps in.

Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just scans my face like he’s checking for a pulse or signs of emotional distress.

“You good?” he finally asks.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

He nods. Doesn’t leave.

“Did you need something?” I ask.

“Just checking on you.”

I blink. “Right.”

Then he steps in close—too close—and presses a kiss to my temple. It lingers just long enough to make my knees wobble.

Then he’s gone.

Except—

Grayson appears two seconds later, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe like a broody butler with secrets.

“Don’t tell me,” I say. “You’re here to check on me.”

“No,” he says, completely serious. “I’m here to tuck you in.”

I open my mouth to argue. Or laugh. Or something .

But he’s already crossed the room and is pulling back the comforter like he means it .

“You don’t have to—”

Grayson kisses my forehead. Soft. Steady. Devastating.

“Sleep well,” he murmurs. Then walks out without another word.

I sit there—fully clothed, blanket halfway over me, brain short-circuiting—when from the living room I hear it.

“What the fuck is happening,” Fletcher growls. “Do they take turns? Is this a lineup ?”

“No one’s touching her,” Hunter calls back. “Relax.”

“I watched three dudes walk into her room.”

“They’re being nice,” Caleb yells. “It’s cozy here.”

“Oh, my God .”

I bury my face in my hands.

Because here’s the worst part.

I’m not mad.

I liked it.

Every single kiss. Every voice. Every bit of attention wrapped in care disguised as chaos.

I’m dazed and flushed and more than a little horrified with myself.

Because I can’t stop asking one very inconvenient question—What is wrong with me?