BOUND TO THE BILLIONAIRE CAPTAIN

“Are you planning on staring at me all night, or are you going to hand me a towel?”

The aluminum mop handle slipped right out of my palms, clattering against the wet tile floor with a sound like a gun firing inside the narrow room.

Water splashed up the cuffs of my gray sweatpants. I didn't move. I couldn't move.

Standing three feet in front of me, slick with steam and dripping wet, was Carter Graham. Completely, entirely naked.

I hated hockey players. I hated everything about them... the loud mouth-breathing in lectures, the stupid varsity jackets, the smell of stale ice equipment that somehow drifted through the student union. But Carter was in a league of his own.

He was the campus golden boy, mostly because his dad, Viktor Graham, was an absolute legend who had his retired jersey hanging in three different NHL arenas.

“Hello?” Carter called out. He waved a damp hand right in front of my frozen face, water droplets flying off his knuckles.

“Wrong room,” I choked out.

I spun on my sneaker heels so hard my ankles popped, and bolted through the doorway into the dim hallway.

Cold air hit my lungs, but my chest stayed tight. I leaned my back against the brick wall, closing my eyes and breathing through my nose. That was when I reached into my coat pocket.

Empty.

My fingers hit nothing but lint. The brass master key... the one attached to the giant plastic tag warning PROPERTY OF FACILITIES - $200 LOSS F*E... was lying on the tile right beside my mop bucket.

God damn it.

Two hundred dollars was my grocery money for two months. It was my wifi bill and my laundry fund. I didn't have two hundred cents to spare, let alone two hundred bucks. I had to go back in.

I pressed my spine against the wall and started tiptoeing down the corridor toward the locker room doors, praying to whatever god was listening that he had put some pants on.

My back pocket vibrated violently. I snatched my phone out before the ringtone could blast through the hall, answering in a frantic whisper.

“Girl, where are you?” Allie’s voice shrilled through the speaker.

“Keep your voice down! I'm still inside the athletic center,” I hissed, crouching low beside a line of metal lockers.

“Why are you whispering? You literally tried to start a student petition to ban the hockey team from using campus funding last semester lol.”

“Because they're paying fifteen an hour for late night sanitation shifts,” I muttered, glancing back over my shoulder. “I needed the cash to cover my share of the utility bill.”

“Is it gross in there?”

“I'll tell you when I get home if I survive the night,”

I whispered, cutting the call before she could reply.

I reached the heavy doors just as heavy boot heels echoed against the concrete inside.

Two sets of footsteps. One heavy and slow, the other light and fast.

I ducked into the dark gap behind a massive snack vending machine, tucking my arms close to my ribs. The locker room door swung open a few inches, and the voices carried straight into my hiding spot.

“Your grades dropped off a cliff, Graham, and you're acting like it's a joke,” Coach Miller barked.

“It's not that big of a deal, Coach,” Carter replied.

His voice was smooth, lazy, dripping with that classic rich-kid apathy.

“Not a big deal? You failed the psychology midterm for the second time. Even after the favors I pulled with the dean to let you retake the paper, you still got a forty-five,” Miller shouted.

“So pull another favor.”

“You think I'm putting my career on the line so you can fail a third time? You have some nerve.”

“Look, Coach,” Carter countered, his tone dropping the lazy act and turning sharp. “I lead the division in goals. The athletic board isn't going to bench their best player over an intro psych class.”

Coach Miller let out a harsh, dry laugh that sounded like sandpaper on wood.

“You really think you're untouchable, don't you? Let me break something down for you, Graham. Under the new regional charter rules, if your GPA drops below a 2.0, you sit. I don't care if you're draft-ready. A kid with passing grades takes your spot on the ice. And do you know who wrote that rule into the book?”

Silence hung in the air.

“Your father,” Miller snapped. “Viktor Graham signed the draft policy himself last month.”

The heavy air in the hallway seemed to freeze solid. Carter didn't say a word. I had never heard him shut up so fast in my life.

“I talked Professor Helen into giving you one last shot next week,” Miller said, his boots crunching against the floor as he walked away. “Find a tutor. Get your act together, or enjoy watching the playoffs from the bleachers.”

The heavy door slammed shut.

I held my breath, waiting for the sound of Carter leaving so I could grab my key ring. But another set of footsteps approached from the gym side.

"That sounded brutal, man," Jaxson said, his voice echoing in the space. "Is Miller actually gonna call your dad? Because your old man gives off serious supervillain vibes."

"Yeah," Carter muttered. Heavy sneakers squeaked on the rubber mats as he paced back and forth. "If I fail this final, I'm dead. My dad will pull my trust fund and cut my ice time before the scouts even show up for regionals. I need a miracle, Jax. I don't know anything Professor Helen has been talking about since week one."

Jaxson made a faint swallowing sound, probably taking a hit from his protein shaker. "There's only one person who got an A on that midterm."

"Who?" Carter stopped pacing.

"Clara."

My stomach dropped straight to the bottom of my shoes. My fingers clamped around the plastic edge of the vending machine so hard my nails dug into the metal.

No. Absolutely not.

Carter grunted, sounding genuinely lost. "Who the hell is Clara?"

Jaxson sighed loud enough for me to hear it through the cracked door. "Are you serious? You don't know Clara?"

"No," Carter said. "Never heard of her."

"The girl who sits in the front row with the dark hair? She does classical vocal performance?" Jaxson tried again.

"Nope," Carter replied, his voice totally blank. "Still nothing."

Unbelievable. The guy lived in such an insulated bubble of money, sports, and privilege that anyone outside his inner circle was completely invisible.

"Wait," Jaxson muttered, the rustle of a nylon bag filling the silence. "I think I have a picture. Allie took that video at the diner after the home game last Friday, and Clara was in the background."

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against the cold side of the snack machine. Please no. Please delete the video.

"Here," Jaxson said.

A long pause stretched between them.

I leaned forward an inch, peering through the small gap near the door hinges. Carter was leaning over Jaxson’s shoulder, staring down at the glowing phone screen. His brow was pulled tight, his mouth set in a hard line.

Then, that exact same arrogant smirk from the shower returned to his face.

“Oh,” Carter murmured, a quiet, dark laugh slipping out of his chest. “The weird girl who just walked in on me in the shower.”

Jaxson yanked his phone back, glaring at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Carter said, waving a hand casually. He reached into his locker, pulled a black t-shirt over his head, and grabbed his gym bag off the wooden bench. All the panic and frustration from a minute ago had completely melted away.

“Actually, Jax,” Carter said, tossing his car keys into the air and catching them with a slick grin. “Send me that picture. Looks like I just found my new tutor.”