Page 9

Rilee

Laundry day in a house full of hockey players is less “domestic bliss” and more “chaotic survival with occasional body spray assaults.”

I’m crouched in front of the dryer, pulling out a tangled mess of my scrubs and one of Caleb’s suspiciously soft hoodies I may or may not have claimed as my own. My hair’s in a top knot. I’m in shorts and a faded band tee that definitely shrank in the last wash—hello, crop top.

I hear footsteps behind me and glance over my shoulder just in time to see Grayson.

Wearing a towel. And only a towel.

Low-slung. Damp. Droplets clinging to his tattooed chest.

“Shit,” I gasp, jerking upright—and promptly tripping over the laundry basket at my feet.

I go down like a folding chair. Socks scatter. The basket flips. My dignity dies a little.

Grayson blinks. “You good?” he asks, like this is a perfectly normal Tuesday morning thing.

I flop onto my back and squint up at the ceiling. “Your towel just attacked me.”

He raises a brow. “Technically, you attacked the floor.”

I groan, scrambling upright, dragging laundry around me like a blanket of shame.

Grayson steps forward, bending to grab a T-shirt from the dryer—and the motion is too much.

The towel slips.

Hits the floor like it’s part of the show.

I make a strangled sound and throw a shirt over my face. “Oh my God. ”

But not before I see everything .

Lean hips. Ridges of muscle that make no anatomical sense. V-lines so sharp they should come with a warning label. And yeah—I catch a flash of what’s underneath the towel.

It’s… generous. And unfair. And now permanently etched into my brain like a screensaver I never asked for.

Grayson doesn’t even flinch. Just casually picks up the towel and tucks it back around his waist.

I peek out from between the sleeves. “Are you always this calm when mostly naked?”

“I’m not mostly,” he says, grabbing clean boxers from the basket without shame.

I narrow my eyes. “You did that on purpose.”

He finally looks at me—smirk low and dangerous. Eyes dragging down my laundry-day outfit like it’s his turn to assess me.

“You think this is the first time someone’s fallen at my feet in here?”

I merely stare at him.

He doesn’t even flinch.

* * *

Later, back upstairs and very much still emotionally off-balance, I grab my phone—and accidentally open a group thread I don’t remember joining.

HOUSE OF HOCKEY HUNKS

Caleb: Mirror check or it doesn’t count

Hunter: I’m not sending you shirtless pics, Ward

Caleb: You say that like you don’t already have them in your camera roll

Grayson: [Image]

Caleb: *fire emoji*

Hunter: We doing the mascot poll again?

Grayson: It’s tradition

Caleb: Ok but Gritty would fight dirty and we all know it

Hunter: I could take the St. Louis Blues bear

Me: …Why am I in this thread?

A full minute passes.

Then:

Caleb: Plot twist

Grayson: Welcome to the team

Hunter: Mute us. Or enjoy the chaos.

A second later, a new poll pops up:

Which mascot could Rilee beat in a fight?

The Coyotes coyote

The Leafs polar bear-

That weird inflatable moose from Western Michigan

I close the thread.

Immediately reopen it.

Because apparently, this is my life now.

And I’m not entirely mad about it.

Before I can spiral deeper into the absurdity of being in a group chat titled HOUSE OF HOCKEY HUNKS , there’s a knock on my door.

Then it opens. Because apparently, that’s also my life now.

Caleb pokes his head in, grinning like he owns the place. Which, technically, I guess he partially does.

“Hey,” he says. “Quick poll.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is it about mascots again?”

“Nope. Higher stakes. Halloween.”

I blink. “What about it?”

“We throw a party here every year. House tradition. Costumes, drinks, bad decisions. You in?”

“I guess so.”

“Perfect. It’s only a few days away, which means if you don’t start planning now, you’ll be stuck last minute in cat ears and existential regret.”

I stare at him. “Please don’t tell me you guys have matching costumes.”

He grins wider. “Grayson’s refusing to participate unless he can be something obscure and tragic. Hunter’s pretending he doesn’t care, which means he cares deeply. And me?” He spreads his arms. “I’m open to options. Group theme? Power couple moment? Your call.”

“Oh, so I’m invited now?”

“You live here,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re expected. ”

I laugh, despite myself. “What are you going as?”

He leans forward, conspiratorial. “I was thinking… cowboy. But like, slutty. You in?”

I snort. “You want me to be your slutty cowgirl?”

He winks. “I want you to be whatever you want. As long as you’re there.”

And just like that, my pulse flutters.

I reach for my laptop. “Fine. But I’m not wearing fringe.”

“Deal. But can I wear assless chaps?”

I toss a pillow at him.

He dodges it and stands, backing toward the door.

“Think about it,” he calls. “We’d be iconic.”

And then he’s gone.

Leaving me alone in my room, heart annoyingly warm, laptop open to Sexy Halloween Costume Ideas and zero clue how I’m going to survive this house without losing my mind—or my clothes.