Oops! I'm Living With The Hockey Captain!

Drake Morvane

I didn’t sleep. Not a single wink.

Every time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed the exact moment Rose Murphy burst into my apartment. I kept seeing the way her wide, hazel eyes had darted down my chest before scrambling back up to my face, her cheeks flushing a furious, beautiful shade of pink.

Beautiful? No. Annoying. She was a distraction, and distractions were a luxury I couldn't afford. Especially not with the scouts from Boston and Chicago hovering around our arena lately, watching my every move. I needed absolute focus.

At 5:00 AM, my alarm buzzed. I rolled out of bed, threw on my training gear, a gray sleeveless compression shirt and shorts, and cracked my neck. Time for my morning skate. The ice didn't care about housing glitches, and neither did I.

When I opened my bedroom door, the apartment was pitch-black except for the pale blue moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I walked into the living room, intending to grab my keys and leave without a sound.

But then my foot hit something soft.

"Oof," a muffled voice groaned from the floor.

I froze, looking down. Rose wasn’t on the couch. Apparently, at some point during the night, she had rolled completely off the expensive leather sofa and was now tangled in a chaotic ball of her own oversized gray hoodie and a flimsy, thin blanket she must have dug out of her duffel bag. Her messy brown hair was splayed across the hardwood floor, a few strands stuck to her lip.

She looked small. Vulnerable. Completely unlike the fiery girl who had called me the 'king of Canada' last night.

And she was shivering. The Toronto winter was brutal, and the draft from the old brick walls always hit the living room hardest.

I stood there for a full minute, my keys clutched in my hand, telling myself to walk out the door. Not my problem, I thought. She wanted to stay here. Let her freeze.

Instead, my feet moved on their own. I walked back to my room, grabbed the heavy, oversized navy-blue duvet from my bed—the one with the official Toronto Varsity Blues crest—and walked back out. I knelt down, trying to ignore the way my chest tightened when I got close to her, and carefully draped the heavy blanket over her shoulders.

Rose stirred, murmuring something incoherent under her breath, and immediately buried her face into the fabric, inhaling deeply. My scent, mint and cedarwood, was all over that blanket. The realization that she was wrapped in my smell made something strange and dangerously hot flare up in my gut.

"Get a grip, Morvane," I muttered to myself, standing up abruptly and heading out the door.

Three hours later, the ice hadn't cured my mood. If anything, I had skated harder, hit the plexiglass rougher, and pushed my body until my lungs burned. All to exhaust the thought of her out of my system.

When I finally unlocked the door to Apartment 4B again, I was fully prepared to deal with the administrative nightmare. I had even left a note on the counter earlier: Housing office at 8:30 AM. Don't be late. And don't touch my coffee maker.

I kicked the door open, my hockey bag slung over my shoulder, and the first thing I saw was Rose.

My breath caught in my throat.

She was standing by the kitchen island, nursing a mug of tea. She was wearing high-waisted jeans and a tight, cropped black turtleneck that clung to every single curve, her hair pulled up into a messy claw clip. The cold air from outside suddenly felt scorching. My eyes, entirely betraying my willpower, tracked her from her boots, up the tight denim of her jeans, and lingered on the exposed sliver of golden skin at her waist before finally meeting her eyes.

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ground together. Control yourself, Thorne.

"You're dressed," I said, my voice rougher and deeper than usual from the freezing rink air.

"Good observation. I see those captain instincts are sharp," she replied, leaning against the counter and taking a slow, agonizingly deliberate sip of her tea. "Did you enjoy your little ice dance?"

"It’s called a morning skate, Rose," I murmured, my legs moving before I could stop them. I walked toward the kitchen, crossing the space between us until I was standing right on the other side of the island, terrifyingly close. I wanted to intimidate her. I wanted her to back down. But mostly, I just wanted to be near her. "And you're wearing my blanket."

"You left it on me," she countered, looking straight into my eyes without a hint of fear. "Which, by the way, was surprisingly human of you. I didn't think robots felt empathy."

I leaned forward, placing my hands on the edge of the counter, tilting my head to look down at her. "Don't get used to it, sweetheart. I just didn't want your ghost haunting my living room."

My eyes scanned her face, settling on a small smudge of charcoal on her cheek—probably from the art supplies I’d seen poking out of her bag. Without thinking, my hand reached across the small distance. My thumb brushed against her cheekbone. Her skin was incredibly soft, warm, and the contact felt like a sudden jolt of electricity straight to my chest.

Rose gasped softly, her breath catching.

I froze, my thumb lingering on her skin for a second too long. My gaze dropped to her mouth, watching her lips part. The tension between us was suffocating. I wanted to pull her across the counter. I wanted to tell her she wasn't going anywhere.

Fearing how close I was to losing my grip, I abruptly yanked my hand back as if I’d been burned.

"You have... dirt on your face," I muttered, turning around quickly to open the fridge just to hide the fact that my fingers were trembling. "Let's go. The housing office opens in ten minutes."

"I'm ready," she said, her voice carrying a quiet, knowing confidence that told me she knew exactly how much she affected me.

I grabbed my keys from the counter and reached for the doorknob. But before I could turn it, my phone, not my personal one, but the sleek, black burner phone I kept hidden in my hockey bag, vibrated violently against my hip.

I pulled it out, intending to ignore it, but the lock screen lit up with a text message from a restricted number.

My blood turned to pure ice.

It was a photo. A photo of Rose, taken through the kitchen window just a few seconds ago, holding her mug of tea. Underneath it was a single line of text:

“She looks good in your apartment, Thorne. Let’s see how she looks when we’re done with her. Sixty seconds to get her out, or we do it for you.”

"Drake?" Rose’s voice came from behind me, laced with sudden confusion as she noticed my rigid posture. "What's wrong?"

I didn't answer. Slowly, I looked up from the screen and stared at the front door. On the other side of the wood, I heard the faint, distinct sound of the doorknob beginning to turn.