Oops! I'm Living With The Hockey Captain!

Drake Morvane

I lied.

I told her I wasn't her friend, that I didn't care, that she was just a glitch in the system. But three hours later, as I sat in the locker room staring at my skates while the rest of the team laughed and shouted around me, I couldn't get her out of my head.

More specifically, I couldn't get the feel of her skin out of my mind.

My thumb still burned from where I had brushed that stray piece of charcoal off her cheekbone. I could still see the way her hazel eyes had widened, the soft, breathless gasp that had escaped her lips when I touched her. She was tiny compared to me, but she had this fierce, unapologetic spark that made it impossible to look away.

"Hey, Cap! Earth to Morvane!"

A sweaty hockey glove smacked against my shoulder, breaking my trance. I blinked, looking up to see Marcus, my assistant captain, grinning down at me.

"You're slacking today, man," Marcus said, sitting on the bench next to me and unlacing his skates. "Coach noticed it during drills. You missed two easy passes. What’s going on? You still stressed about that apartment situation?"

"It's fine," I muttered, leaning forward to grab my water bottle. "Just a roommate issue."

"Did Vance finally stick some nerdy freshman in your loft?" Marcus laughed, shaking his head. "Man, I'd pay to see some poor kid try to survive living with you. You're like a drill sergeant when you're in game mode. Just ignore them, lock your door, and focus on Friday's game against McGill. We need this win."

"Yeah," I said quietly, taking a long drink of water. "Focus."

But when I got back to the apartment later that afternoon, my carefully constructed focus shattered into a million pieces.

I unlocked the door, expecting the heavy silence I had grown to love over the past two years. Instead, the loft was filled with the warm, rich sound of indie-pop music drifting from a small Bluetooth speaker. The scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee air hit me the second I stepped inside.

And there she was.

Rose was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room rug, surrounded by a chaotic sea of sketchbooks, charcoal pencils, and massive sheets of watercolor paper.

She had changed into an absurdly oversized, faded vintage band t-shirt that hung completely off one of her delicate shoulders, exposing a devastating expanse of smooth, golden skin and the sharp curve of her collarbone. Her hair was piled into a messy bun held together by a single pencil.

She was completely lost in her own world, her fingers stained with black charcoal as she fiercely sketched something on the paper in front of her. She was humming along to the music, totally unaware of how the afternoon sunlight caught the golden flecks in her hair, or how the hem of that t-shirt rode up dangerously high on her thighs.

I stood by the door, frozen, my hockey bag suddenly feeling heavy in my hand.

I had spent my entire life surrounded by the loud, aggressive, hyper-masculine world of hockey. My dad's house was a shrine to trophies and cold efficiency. My dorms had been sterile. My arena was ice and steel.

But this? This was color. This was warmth. This was pure, unadulterated temptation invading my black-and-white sanctuary.

Rose suddenly stopped humming, her head snapping up as if she finally sensed my presence. Her eyes met mine, and she immediately went still, her lips parting slightly.

"You're back early," she said, her voice softer than it had been this morning, lacking the sharp defense mechanism she usually wore like armor.

"Practice ended," I choked out, my throat suddenly feeling incredibly dry.

I took off my jacket, trying to act normal, but my eyes kept drifting back to the bare skin of her shoulder, to the messy strands of hair framing her face, to the way she looked so incredibly right sitting on my floor.

I walked over to the kitchen island, intending to just grab some water and hide in my room like I promised. But as I passed her, my curiosity won. I glanced down at the massive sketchbook she was working on.

I expected a landscape. A flower. Some abstract art major stuff.

Instead, my heart stopped.

Sketched in stunning, hyper-realistic charcoal was the silhouette of a hockey player on the ice, his jersey flowing, his posture aggressive and powerful, frozen mid-shot. And stitched perfectly onto the back of the jersey, detailed with intricate shading, was the number 17.

She had been drawing me.

Rose noticed where I was looking, and her face instantly turned a violent, bright shade of crimson. She scrambled forward, desperately trying to flip the sketchbook closed, but her foot caught on the edge of the rug. With a small cry, she lost her balance, slipping sideways toward the sharp edge of the coffee table.

Inertia. My body moved before my brain could process the risk.

I dropped my bag, lunged forward, and caught her by the waist just inches before she hit the wood. The force of my movement pulled her flush against my chest, and we both went down onto the soft rug, with her securely pinned beneath me.

The music played softly in the background, but all I could hear was the frantic, rapid thudding of her heart against my ribs. Her hands were pressed against my chest, her fingers curling into my shirt, while my large hands were firmly locked around her waist, my fingers sinking into the soft flesh above her hips.

God, she was tiny. And she fit perfectly under me.

The oversized shirt had ridden up even further, and the heat of her bare thigh was pressed right against the rough fabric of my jeans. Up close, she smelled intoxicating, like vanilla, paper, and a hint of the mint body wash she’d stolen from my bathroom. She was staring up at me, her hazel eyes wide, dilated, and dark with a mixture of shock and something heavy, dangerous, and completely mutual.

My gaze dropped down to her lips. They were parted, her breath fanning hot and shallow against my neck. Every time her chest rose, it brushed right against mine, sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to my gut.

"Are you okay?" I growled, my voice dropping into a register so deep it was practically a purr. My chest rose and fell heavily against hers, refusing to give her an inch of breathing room.

"I..." Rose swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering wildly at the base of her throat. Her gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering there for a long, agonizing second before snapping back to my eyes. "Yeah. I'm okay. Thanks."

I knew I should get up. I knew I should break the touch, apologize, and walk away. But looking down at her, seeing her cheeks flushed, feeling the heat of her body radiating against mine, and knowing that I was the one making her breath hitch like that...

I realized I had just broken my own rule.

My grip on her waist tightened, pulling her just a fraction of an inch higher against my body, letting her feel the heavy, uneven thud of my own heart. I didn't move. I didn't let go.

And the worst part? I wanted to see exactly how far she’d let me push it.