BOUND TO THE BILLIONAIRE CAPTAIN

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

My hands went completely numb.

 The wooden mop stick slipped right out of my sweaty grip and smacked against the wet tile with a loud clack. Loud af. It echoed forever in the massive, empty bathroom.

My brain just... stopped working. Short circuited entirely.

Through the thick steam of the Briar University VIP hydrotherapy room, a man was casually leaning against the glass shower wall. He was completely, undeniably naked.

Water dripped from his dark messy hair, running down a chest that looked like it belonged in some stupid fitness magazine, sliding over a ridiculously flat stomach, and kept going down to…

I ripped my eyes away, staring aggressively at the ceiling tiles. 

My face scorched so hot I swore my skin was melting off my skull.

Carter Graham. The untouchable captain of the hockey team. 

The guy who basically owned this campus and treated everyone on it like his personal background extras.

"I... wrong room," I choked out, my voice cracking so bad I wanted to die.

"I am maintenance!"

I heard a low raspy chuckle. God, even his laugh sounded arrogant. Like he was totally unbothered by the fact that he was standing there bare naked in front of a stranger.

 Like he was used to girls walking in on him and dropping to their knees. Gross.

"Usually maintenance knocks, sweetheart." His voice echoed off the damp walls.

"I did knock!" I snapped, my sheer disgust finally overriding my panic. I hated hockey players. I hated this whole building. 

"You were too busy drowning in your own ego to hear me."

I didn't wait for a comeback. I didn't stick around to see if he grabbed a towel. 

I just spun around, my rubber work boots squeaking wildly on the linoleum, and sprinted for my life.

I hit the heavy double doors with my shoulder, shoving them open and bursting out into the dark quiet hallway. 

I didn't stop until I was pressed flat against the cinderblock wall around the corner, gasping for air like I had just run a marathon.

My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard it physically ached.

Gross. Absolutely, undeniably gross.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the heels of my hands against my forehead, trying to scrub the image of the campus golden boy out of my brain. 

I swear to god I did not need to see all that. Carter Graham was everything I despised about Briar. He was rich, reckless, and skated through life... 

literally... without ever facing a single consequence. While I was working two jobs, scrubbing toilets at 1 AM, and singing classical music gigs on the weekends just to keep a roof over my head and pay my insane tuition fees, guys like Carter were getting failing grades erased by the athletic board.

It was honestly a joke. The whole system was rigged for guys with trust funds and nice jawlines.

I needed to get out of here. I needed to clock out, go back to my tiny freezing apartment, eat some leftover ramen, and scrub my own skin raw. I was so done with today.

But as I reached for my pocket, my stomach dropped into my shoes.

My master keycard. It wasn't in my pocket. It was attached to the plastic coil on my cleaning cart.

Which was still sitting inside the locker room. Right next to my dropped mop.

"You have got to be kidding me, Clara," I whispered to the empty hallway.

If I lost that cart, or if I left it in the VIP suite overnight, my boss would fire me on the spot. 

If I got fired, I wouldn't make rent next week. And if I didn't make rent, I would be sleeping in the library. Lol, my life is a joke.

Get it together, I told myself, taking a shaky breath. Just sneak in, grab the cart, and leave. He is probably back in the shower. You will not even have to look at him again.

I tiptoed back down the hall, wincing at every tiny squeak of my rubber soles. 

When I reached the locker room doors, they were still propped open an inch from my frantic escape.

I peered through the crack, holding my breath.

Heavy angry boots stomped across the floor inside. It definitely was not Carter with his bare feet.

"Graham!" a harsh barking voice echoed through the room.

Coach Miller. The head coach of the Briar hockey team.

I froze instantly, shrinking back into the shadows of the doorframe.

Through the narrow gap, I could see Carter sitting on the wooden bench in front of his locker. 

Thankfully he was wearing a pair of low hanging gray sweatpants now. He had a white towel draped over his wet hair, rubbing it dry. 

He didn't even bother looking up when the coach stormed into the room.

"You think this is a joke, Carter?" Coach Miller sounded furious, his face beet red, a thick vein practically popping out of his neck. 

"I just got an email from the academic board. Your psychology grade is in the gutter."

Carter sighed, tossing the towel into a nearby laundry bin with a lazy flick of his wrist. "I will handle it, Coach. Tell the board to relax."

"No, you will not handle it with your usual bullshit," Miller snapped, his voice booming so loud I flinched in the hallway. 

"You have one final test. One. If you slip up on this final test, you do not get drafted. The scouts are not going to look at a guy who gets benched for academic probation."

Carter tightened his jaw. The nonchalant untouchable fuckboy attitude cracked, just for a fraction of a second. His broad shoulders went rigid.

"Do not threaten me with the draft," Carter said, his voice dropping low, laced with a cold warning.

"I don't have to threaten you," the coach fired back, taking a step closer. "I just have to call your father."

The silence in the room suddenly felt suffocating. Even out in the hallway, I felt the temperature drop.

Viktor Graham.

You didn't have to be a sports fan to know who Carter's dad was. The billionaire owned half the city's real estate and treated his son like a corporate asset. 

The rumors about Viktor's temper and his ruthless demands for perfection were legit campus legends.

"You know how fierce your father is about you getting drafted," Coach Miller warned, his tone dropping from angry to deadly serious. 

"If you do not secure that spot, Viktor will pull your funding. He will rip you off this ice permanently and drag you right back into the company. Fix your grade, Graham. Or you are done."

Coach Miller turned on his heel and marched toward the back exit, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind him with a finality that made me jump.

For a long moment, Carter just sat there. He ran a large hand over his face, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. 

 He looked... panicked. It was honestly so weird seeing the arrogant guy who just smirked at me naked looking like his entire world was about to cave in.

The door to the trainer's room opened, and another guy walked out, holding a protein shake. Jaxson. Carter's right hand man and fellow varsity menace.

"That sounded rough, man," Jaxson said, leaning against a row of metal lockers. 

"He is actually gonna call your old man? Because I have met your dad, and he is terrifying."

"Yeah. He is." Carter stood up abruptly, pacing the narrow aisle like a caged animal. 

"If I fail this psych final, I am dead. Literally dead. My dad will pull my trust and end my career before it even starts. You know how he gets. I need a miracle, Jax. I need someone who actually understands whatever the hell Professor Miller is teaching, because I have not paid attention since syllabus week."

Jaxson took a slow sip of his shake, shrugging. 

"There is only one person who aced that midterm."

"Who?" Carter stopped pacing.

"Clara."

My stomach plummeted straight down to my knees. No. No, no, no.

Carter frowned, looking genuinely confused. "Who is Clara?"

Jaxson rolled his eyes. "Do not tell me you do not know Clara..."

"Nope." Carter crossed his massive arms over his bare chest.

"The girl who sings classical music?" 

Jaxson tried again, gesturing vaguely with his free hand.

"Nope," Carter said, completely blank. 

"Still don't know her."

Typical. The guy lived in such an insulated bubble of wealth and privilege that he didn't know the name of anyone who didn't wear a jersey or a cheer uniform. To him, the rest of us were just invisible.

"Wait a minute," Jaxson muttered, digging into his gym bag and pulling out his phone. 

"I think I have her picture on my phone. She was in the background of that video Allie took at the diner."

Jaxson tapped his screen a few times, swiping through his camera roll.

Out in the hall, I couldn't breathe. My hands gripped the metal edge of the doorframe so hard my knuckles were turning white.

"Here," Jaxson said, holding the phone out.

Carter leaned in, squinting at the glowing screen. For a second, nothing happened. He just stared at it.

Then that same arrogant, dangerous smirk from the shower slowly crept back onto his face. The panic in his eyes vanished, replaced by a dark calculating glint.

"Ohh," Carter breathed out, his voice laced with sudden intense amusement. "The weird girl who walked in on me in the shower."

Jaxson blinked, pulling the phone back and looking at Carter like he was crazy. "What?"

"It is nothing," Carter said, waving a hand dismissively. He grabbed a clean black t-shirt from his locker and pulled it over his head. The desperate, stressed out guy from a minute ago was completely gone. 

In his place was the cocky infuriating predator who always got exactly what he wanted.

He knew exactly who I was now.

"Actually, Jax," Carter said, grabbing his keys off the bench and tossing them in the air. "Send me that picture. I think I just found my new tutor."

I let go of the doorframe and backed away into the shadows, my blood running completely ice cold.

Like hell you did.