Oops! I'm Living With The Hockey Captain!

Five minutes. That was exactly how long Drake Morvane took to change, and every single second of it felt like a countdown to an explosion.

I stood in the exact same spot in the kitchen, refusing to budge, as if leaving my square meter of hardwood floor meant surrendering the war. To keep my eyes from wandering back to the hallway where the towel had disappeared, I forced myself to look around the apartment.

Aside from the hockey stick and the framed jersey, the place was annoyingly pristine. It was an open-concept loft with exposed brick walls, industrial light fixtures, and a massive leather sofa that looked like it cost more than my entire tuition. There was a sleek kitchen island separating us, currently holding a half-empty gallon of protein milk and a violently green smoothie.

The heavy thud of footsteps echoed from the corridor.

I braced myself, pulling my shoulders back as Drake walked back into the room. He had swapped the towel for a pair of gray sweatpants—which hung low on his hips, teasing the dark v-line of his pelvis—and a fitted black t-shirt that stretched tightly across his chest. His damp hair was swept back, making his sharp cheekbones and icy blue eyes look even more lethal.

He didn’t say a word. He walked straight past me, ignoring my existence entirely, pulled out his phone, and put it to his ear.

"Yeah, Marcus," Drake said, his voice flat and dangerous. "Get the landlord on the phone. Right now."

He leaned his hip against the counter, his eyes finally locking onto mine. He didn't blink. He just stared at me with this intense, unreadable gaze while the line rang.

"Mr. Vance isn’t picking up?" Drake muttered into the receiver, his jaw tightening. "Then find his assistant. I don't care if it's Sunday. There’s a girl in my apartment. She has a key... No, Marcus, I’m not joking. She thinks she lives here... Just call him."

He slammed the phone face down on the granite counter. The sharp clack made me flinch, but I refused to let him see it.

"Well?" I asked, crossing my arms. "Did your little hockey minion find a solution, or are you going to have to accept that you're stuck with me for the night?"

Drake took a slow, deliberate step toward the island. He placed both hands flat on the surface, leaning forward until we were barely a foot apart. Up close, I could smell the sharp, clean scent of his cologne. It was intoxicatingly masculine, a mix of cedarwood and fresh ice, and it was doing terrible things to my ability to stay angry.

"Let's get one thing straight, Rose," he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that sent an accidental shiver straight down my spine. "I don’t do roommates. I especially don't do roommates who think they can bark orders at me in my own space. This 'housing glitch' is going to get fixed first thing tomorrow morning. Until then, you don't touch anything. You don't look at anything. And you stay on that side of the room."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I scoffed, leaning in just as close, matching his intensity. "Am I breathing your precious, elite air? Should I pay a tax for standing on your rug? Listen to me, Morvane. I don't care if you're the campus god or the next NHL draft pick. To me, you’re just a guy who desperately needs a lesson in basic manners. I paid my rent. My name is on the system. If anyone is leaving tomorrow, it’s the guy who thinks a towel counts as an outfit."

Drake’s eyes darkened. A dangerous, slow smirk spread across his lips, but it wasn't friendly. It was a predator looking at a prey that didn't know it was cornered.

"You've got a smart mouth, sweetheart," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips for a split second before snapping back to my eyes. "But smart mouths don't pay the bills when I have the athletic board backing my lease. I’ve lived here for two years. You're a glitch in the computer."

"Then until the computer reboots, get used to the glitch."

Before he could respond, my stomach let out a loud, traitorous, and incredibly aggressive growl. The sound echoed in the tense silence of the kitchen like a firecracker.

I instantly closed my eyes, wanting the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Of all the times to betray me...

When I opened my eyes, Drake was staring at my stomach, one of his dark eyebrows raised. The tension in his jaw had loosened just a fraction, replaced by pure amusement.

"Fierce," he mocked, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. "Are you going to bite me next, or is your stomach just doing the talking for you?"

"I haven't eaten since six AM because I was driving a U-Haul through a snowstorm," I muttered, my cheeks burning with a furious blush.

Drake let out a breathy sigh, rolling his eyes as he walked over to the fridge. He yanked it open, revealing rows of meal-prep containers, sports drinks, and eggs. He grabbed a pre-made chicken salad wrap, slammed it onto the counter between us, and slid it toward me.

"Eat," he commanded shortly. "The last thing I need is a dead girl on my floor. It messes with my training schedule."

I looked at the wrap, then at him. "Is this poisoned?"

"I wish," Drake snapped, turning his back to me to pour himself a glass of water. "But unfortunately, murder charges ruin my chances of making the playoffs."

I hated that I was hungry enough to accept food from the enemy, but my survival instinct won. I snatched the wrap, tore off the plastic wrapper, and took a massive bite. It was annoying how good it tasted.

"Thank you," I mumbled around the food, trying to maintain some dignity.

Drake watched me eat, his expression slipping back into that unreadable, stoic mask. He leaned against the sink, slowly sipping his water, his intense blue eyes tracking every movement of my hands, the way I chewed, the way I wiped a crumb from my lower lip. It was unnerving. He wasn't just looking at me; he was analyzing me, trying to figure out if I was a threat to his perfectly structured world.

"Tomorrow morning, 8:00 AM," Drake said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he set his empty glass down. "We go to the housing office together. We get this sorted. You get a new room, and I get my sanity back."

"Fine," I replied, swallowing the last bite of the wrap. "But tonight, since there’s only one bed in that second room and my mattress hasn't arrived... where am I supposed to sleep?"

Drake pointed a long, blunt finger toward the massive gray leather sofa in the living room. "Right there. And don't even think about asking for a pillow from my room."

"Chivalry is truly dead," I muttered, walking over to my duffel bag and dragging it toward the couch.

"It died the moment you walked through my door," Drake shot back, his voice fading as he walked toward his bedroom.

He paused at the threshold of his room, his hand on the doorknob. He turned his head slightly, his profile sharp against the dim hallway light.

"Lock the front door, Rose," he said, his voice unexpectedly quiet, losing some of its harsh edge. "And don't touch my hockey sticks."

With a soft click, his bedroom door closed, leaving me alone in the quiet, sprawling apartment. I collapsed onto the leather sofa, burying my face in my hands.

He was arrogant. He was rude. He was completely insufferable.

But as I lay down, pulling my oversized hoodie tight around myself to ward off the chill of the Toronto night, all I could think about was the way his eyes had looked when he was leaning over the counter.

This was going to be a very, very long night. And an even longer semester.