Page 6

Caleb

The living room smells like sweat, pizza, and hockey tape.

Half the team’s sprawled across the couches, chairs, and floor. Someone’s got an ice pack on their shoulder. Someone else is halfway through a story about puking in his helmet. Hunter’s pacing in front of the coffee table, jaw tight, arms crossed—full Captain Mode.

I’m trying to listen.

Really, I am.

But my eyes keep drifting to the front door.

She should’ve been home by now.

The second the thought lands, the door swings open.

And there she is.

Rilee walks in like a hurricane that’s forgotten how to be subtle—scrub pants, sneakers, a messy ponytail, and that exhausted half-glare she saves for people trying to talk to her after a long shift. She freezes in the doorway, blinking at the crowd of hockey guys packed into the room.

“Oh,” she says flatly. “A herd.”

The room goes quiet for a beat—then someone chuckles, and another guy nudges his teammate.

“Hi,” she says, blinking again. “I live here?”

“Team meeting,” I say, waving her over. “Come sit.”

“I don’t think there’s room,” she says, looking weary.

“We’ve got pizza,” I offer. “And a judgment-free zone.”

She groans. “I need a shower. A bed. And possibly a lobotomy.”

I grin, scoot over, and pat the couch cushion next to me. “Or… you could sit for five minutes, eat a slice, and make the living room 500% better.”

She hesitates.

I grab a slice from the box on the table, fold it in half, and hold it out to her like a peace offering. She eyes me, then the pizza. Then me again.

“This is emotional manipulation,” she mutters, taking it anyway and dropping onto the couch beside me.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She bites into the slice, exhales like it’s the first good thing she’s tasted in a week, and leans back with a groan.

“God, okay. Fine. I’ll live. Barely.”

She’s got a smudge on her cheek. One of her shoelaces is untied. There’s a pen still clipped to the collar of her shirt.

And somehow, she looks…

Gorgeous.

Not in the obvious way. Not in the tight-dress, glossy-lips way. Just—real. Worn-out and flushed and glowing from the inside like someone who’s been running on adrenaline and purpose all day.

How can someone work ten hours at a hospital and still look good?

Hunter’s voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and clipped.

“That’s it for tonight. Practice tomorrow at eight. No more coasting. If you’re not focused, don’t bother showing up.”

A few of the guys mutter their agreement and rise to their feet. The crowd starts to disperse. Pizza boxes close. Someone slaps my shoulder on the way out.

I nod. Barely feel it.

Because I’m still watching her.

She’s half asleep already, legs curled under her, pizza crust dangling from her fingers.

And the second she realizes I’m looking, she cracks one eye open.

“What?” she mumbles.

I smile. “Nothing.”

Just everything.

The last of the guys clear out, leaving the living room strewn with pizza crusts and the lingering scent of sweaty gear and testosterone. Hunter grabs his keys from the bowl by the door.

“Party starts in an hour,” he mutters. “We’ll meet them there.”

Grayson gives a chin lift and heads to his room.

I hesitate.

Rilee’s still on the couch, half-curled under one of the throw blankets, scrolling on her phone like she might dissolve into it.

I cross the room and drop onto the armrest near her feet.

“You should come.”

She doesn’t look up. “Hard pass.”

“C’mon. You’ve had a week from hell, and there will be alcohol. Loud music. Dumb dancing. All the essentials.”

“I have work again tomorrow.”

“One drink,” I say. “One song. If it sucks, I’ll personally walk you home.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “You’re very persistent.”

“It’s my best quality.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

I laugh. “You heard correctly . But I also happen to know you look amazing when you let loose.”

That gets her. A little smile. A spark.

“I don’t have time to get ready.”

“You don’t need time,” I say, standing. “You need jeans and five minutes.”

She groans, throws off the blanket, and heads toward the stairs. “If I end up with someone’s beer down my shirt again, you’re paying for dry cleaning.”

“Deal.”

Rilee disappears to her room. Half of me thinks she’ll pass out on the bed the moment she closes the door. The other half hopes she’ll come out and join me at the party.

I linger on the porch, pacing a little, sipping from a warm can of beer while the sky darkens. Hunter and Grayson left ten minutes ago, muttering something about “scouting the keg.”

When the door finally creaks open behind me, I turn—and forget how to function.

Rilee steps out, adjusting one hoop earring, phone in one hand, keys in the other. And holy hell.

Jeans that look painted on. Black tank top that clings like a second skin. Hair down, lips soft and flushed.

She’s not trying to look hot. She just is.

Her eyes flick up and catch mine.

“What?” she says, self-conscious. “Too much?”

I shake my head. “Never too much with you.”

She snorts, tugging on the hem of her shirt. “You’re such a liar.”

“I’ve never meant anything more in my life.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

I offer my arm, mock-formal. “Shall we?”

She hesitates for a second—then takes it.

We step through the front door, and the party swallows us whole—music thumping, bodies packed wall-to-wall, the air already heavy with beer and sweat and cheap cologne.

But everything slows the second we walk in.

Like the universe hit the mute button.

Conversations stutter.

Heads turn.

And yeah—people notice.

Grayson looks up from the kitchen, red Solo cup in hand, and just… watches. His expression doesn’t change, but his gaze sticks to her like gravity.

Hunter’s mid-pour at the keg. The stream overshoots the cup. He doesn’t even blink—just stares, jaw tight, knuckles going white around the tap handle.

Even the rookies on the couch stop pretending to care about their beer pong rematch.

And beside me, Rilee tilts her head.

“What?” she murmurs.

I grin, lean closer. “You just broke at least three hearts and a team dynamic.”

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks go pink—and not from the cold.

I guide her through the crowd, hand at the small of her back, and everyone parts like we’re royalty. Or a wreck no one can look away from.

And honestly? I don’t blame them.

Because Rilee Jameson just walked into this party like a bomb no one saw coming.

And I’m the idiot standing too close—hoping to feel the blast.

Someone overshoots a ping pong ball. It ricochets off the wall and smacks Hunter dead in the chest.

He doesn’t even flinch.

Still watching her.

I lead her to the kitchen, get her a drink, and by the second sip, she’s already lighter. Smiling. Swaying with the music.

Then someone pulls her into a dance.

One of the juniors. Luke. Good guy. Terrible rhythm.

He spins her—badly—but she laughs, and I swear the sound lands somewhere under my ribs.

She moves like she doesn’t care who’s watching.

Like she’s finally remembering how to have fun.

She lets Luke pull her into the crowd, her drink still in hand, hips swaying like she didn’t just work a ten-hour shift.

And it’s a problem.

Because she’s having fun.

And I am absolutely not.

I stand near the kitchen, watching, nursing my beer.

Until I see Luke’s hands slip a little lower.

Too low.

My jaw tightens.

I’m moving before I know I’ve decided to.

But Hunter gets there first.

He grabs Luke’s arm—not hard, but enough to send a message. “Hands up,” he says, voice calm, deadly.

Rilee jerks away, blinking.

“It was just dancing,” Luke says, hands raised.

“Yeah? Then keep it that way.”

I reach them just in time to slide between them.

“Everyone good?” I say, eyes on Rilee.

She nods. Too fast. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

But it’s not.

Not with Hunter standing there, radiating possessive rage.

Not with Luke mumbling something and walking away, flustered.

Not with Grayson still watching from across the room, his knuckles white around a plastic cup.

And not with me, wanting to punch something I can’t name.

But Hunter’s still glaring.

“You sure bringing her here was a good idea?” he mutters, low, just to me.

I don’t answer.

Because I’m watching Rilee.

And she’s not fine. Not anymore.

The fun’s fading from her eyes. The glow’s dimming. And I hate it.

I turn to her. “You wanna get out of here?”

She hesitates. Glances back at the crowd, then at Hunter—who hasn’t moved.

And then she looks at me.

“Yeah,” she says. “Let’s go.”