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Rilee

It’s barely noon and I’m already halfway to a panic spiral.

Lexi and I are holed up in the corner of our favorite café, her laptop open, iced latte sweating beside it, and my nerves shredded like confetti.

“You kissed him?” she asks again, voice pitched for maximum drama.

“Shh!” I hiss, glancing around like someone might have the entire hockey house bugged. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t just a kiss.”

Lexi leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Did you finally do the horizontal hockey stick with Caleb Ward?”

“ No. ” I cover my face. “But it got close. Closer than it should have.”

“And you’re not happy about this because…?”

“Because I have to live there,” I say. “It could get messy—the whole roommates thing.” And because of Hunter’s lecture…and because I’m pretty sure I have a growing crush on Grayson too.

She types something into her browser like I haven’t just revealed the beginning of my moral collapse.

“Okay, well I need faces. And stats. If I’m going to keep up with your spiral, I need a visual bracket.”

“Oh my God.”

She smirks. “You’re living in a romance novel. I’m just trying to cast the adaptation.”

A second later she’s on the university’s hockey site. “Here we go. Roster. Photos. Heights. Bless.”

I groan and sip my lukewarm coffee like it can drown my shame.

“Grayson Cole,” Lexi reads, scrolling. “Goalie. Age twenty-one. Six-foot-two. From Ontario. Probably doesn’t speak unless spoken to. Looks like he broods recreationally.”

“He does,” I mutter. “It’s… a lot.”

“He’s Tall, Dark & Doesn’t Talk. Got it.” She types something into a note labeled Rilee’s Hockey Dilemma. “Or Emo Goalie Supreme, if you prefer.”

I bury my face in my hands.

“Next up—Hunter Maddox. Forward. Captain. Age twenty-three. Six-two. From Michigan. Scowls in his headshot like the camera owed him money.”

“He’s also the reason I’ve been on edge since moving in.”

“Oh, we know this one.” She grins. “This is Grumpy DILF Energy.”

I snort coffee up my nose. “Please stop assigning labels to the men I have to eat cereal next to.”

“I’m not assigning, I’m observing,” she says, all innocence. “Like a hot boy anthropologist.”

I can’t help laughing.

“And finally,” she says with a flourish, “Caleb Ward. Defenseman. Age twenty-two. Six foot one. Local boy. Looks like sunshine and orgasms.”

“Lexi.”

“What? I’m just saying—he’s got that ‘I make breakfast and eat you out’ energy.”

I put my head on the table. “There is something wrong with me.”

“You kissed one guy, want to jump another, and have a soft-core crush on the third. Honestly? Iconic.”

“It’s not iconic. It’s psychotic. ”

Lexi closes the laptop gently. “Okay. Real talk. Which one do you actually like?”

I exhale. “I don’t know. Caleb feels… real. Safe. Like someone I could actually build something with.”

“But?”

“But I can’t stop thinking about Hunter.” My voice goes quiet. “Even when he’s being a dick. Especially when he’s being a dick.”

Lexi raises a brow. “And Grayson?”

I shrug. “He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it matters. And he just… looks. Like he’s sketching me in his mind and undressing me with the same stare.”

She fans herself. “Girl. That is not a red flag. That’s interior design. I want it in every room.”

I laugh, but it dies quickly. “What if I mess this all up?”

Lexi leans forward, nudges my cup. “What if you don’t?”

She stirs the melting ice in her drink, watching me over the lid like she’s not going to let this go.

“And your apartment?” she finally asks, shifting gears with scary ease. “Any hope of salvaging it?”

I groan, leaning back in my chair. “Maintenance emailed yesterday. Said they’re ‘evaluating the scope of the damage.’ Which I think is code for ‘You’re not getting back in this semester, sweetheart.’”

Lexi whistles. “So you’re officially living in the frat lodge of your hormonal nightmares?”

“Indefinitely.”

“And how’s that working out for your academic career?”

I shoot her a look. “Do I look well?”

She softens. “How are you holding up really?”

The question lands harder than I expect.

I look down at my chipped nail polish. “I’m tired all the time. I’m behind on my clinical notes, and my brother’s calling twice a week pretending like rehab is fine when I can hear in his voice that it’s not.”

Lexi reaches across the table, squeezes my hand.

“I just want to finish school,” I whisper. “Be the first person in my family to graduate. Get a job I care about. Make all of this mean something.”

“And you will ,” she says, fierce now. “You’re one semester away. You’ve survived worse than sexy roommates, and you know it.”

I smile weakly.

“Please. You’ve got this. You’re brilliant. You’re stubborn. And you can do this.”

I groan again. “I hope you’re right.”

She opens her laptop again. “Let’s revisit the chaos. Just to fully make sure I understand why you’re spiraling.”

“Well, for starters, because I kissed Caleb.”

“You made out with Caleb. And you wanted to keep going.”

“I still want to keep going,” I admit. “He’s sweet. And funny. And hot in that boy-next-door who’s actually incredible in bed kind of way.”

“So we have Cinnamon Stormcloud, Breakfast in Bed, and Daddy Ice.”

“Lex,” I groan.

“What?” she grins. “You’re a smart girl. You can handle three crushes and a full course load. Probably.”

“I shouldn’t want any of them. I should be focused on graduating. On surviving.”

She tilts her head. “But what if you don’t have to choose right away?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

She shrugs. “Just saying. Maybe the universe stuck you in that house because it’s time to stop carrying everything by yourself. Let people in. Even if it’s messy.”

I look away. “It’s definitely messy.”

“But it could also be good,” she says gently. “And you deserve good , Ri.”

I swallow hard.

Because that?

That’s the part I still don’t know how to believe.

* * *

By the time I get back to the house, the sun’s dipping low and the living room’s empty—just a trail of empty water bottles and someone’s backpack on the far end of the couch.

I drop my bag and head toward the kitchen in search of caffeine or carbs—whichever I can grab faster.

That’s when I hear it.

A low voice. Steady, calm. Talking on the phone.

I slow at the edge of the hallway, not trying to eavesdrop—exactly—but also not announcing myself either.

“Yeah,” Grayson says. “Same time next week’s fine. I’ll bring the gear.”

A pause.

Then, “No, it’s fine. I’ve got it covered. Really. Yeah. I’ll send over the waiver.”

Another pause.

Then a soft, genuine, “Thanks. Appreciate you.”

He hangs up, turns—and jumps slightly when he sees me.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” I say, stepping into the doorway.

Grayson shrugs. “It’s all good.”

I smile. “So… what was that all about?”

He pauses, then nods. “I volunteer. At the rec center downtown. Adaptive skating.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

He rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. “Just once a week. Helps kids with mobility issues get out on the ice. We rig custom sleds or support bars—depends on the need.”

“That’s… incredible.”

He shrugs again, but there’s a quiet pride in his eyes. “It helps. Keeps my head on straight.”

I watch him a second longer, and suddenly I’m seeing him differently.

Not just the broody goalie who communicates in nods and microexpressions.

But someone who carries things quietly.

And probably always has.

“Caleb said you draw,” I say.

He glances at me. “Sometimes.”

“Ever draw me?”

He hesitates, then looks me right in the eye.

“Yes.”

Oh.

I feel my pulse kick, just a little.

“What was I doing?” I ask, trying to play it cool.

He tilts his head, like he’s debating telling me.

And just as I’m about to ask again, he says—casually, but not casually at all, “You and Caleb seem close.”

It’s a simple statement. But the weight behind it isn’t.

I raise a brow. “You keeping tabs?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Just noticing.”

I step closer, leaning one hip against the counter beside him. “You planning to draw that too?”

His mouth twitches. The closest I’ve seen to a smile.

“Depends how it ends.”

We’re close now. Closer than we’ve been. And I swear, if I leaned just an inch to the left…

But he steps back.

Not cold. Just… careful.

“I’ve gotta meet Coach,” he says, voice steady. “You good?”

I nod.

But as he leaves the room, the air still buzzing in his wake, all I can think is—

No.

I’m not.

Not even a little.