11

MAYA

“Spill the tea right now, or sleep with one eye open.”

Elena sat cross-legged on her tangled bedsheets. Dark eyeliner smudged around her sharp eyes, giving her a fierce, chaotic look. She held a giant mug of black coffee in both hands. Her silver septum ring caught the dim morning light filtering through our dorm window. She looked ready to interrogate a prisoner of war.

Dropping my bag onto the wooden floor, a heavy sigh escaped my chest. My bones ached. Sleep had eluded me all night, replaced by racing thoughts of my mother’s hospital room and the burning heat of Davies’s touch.

“There is no tea,” stepping toward the closet, my hands reached for a clean sweater. “We went to the bonfire. Nathan acted like a rabid dog. Davies handled him. End of story.”

“Liar.” Elena took a slow sip of her coffee, her gaze burning holes into my back. “The campus timeline is in shambles, Maya. People are gagged. You two broke the internet last night.”

“It was just a public stunt.”

“A stunt?” She let out a loud snort. “Girl, half the student body saw him carry you into the senior cabin. You did not come out for almost an hour. Your lipstick was gone. His shirt was unbuttoned. Do not stand there and feed me some fake PR script.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. My fingers fumbled with the wooden hangers.

“You did the deed,” Elena gasped, pointing a black-painted fingernail in my direction. Her jaw dropped. “Oh my god. You ate that up! No cap, every puck bunny on this campus is foaming at the mouth with jealousy today. They are sick over this.”

“Keep your voice down!” Snapping my head around, panic spiked in my veins.

“I will not keep it down.” She tossed her pillows aside and crawled to the edge of the mattress. Her eyes gleamed with wicked curiosity. “Is he packed? Does he have stamina? Tell me he rearranged your guts, Maya. Nathan always gave off raw two-minute energy.”

“Elena!”

“Answer the question!”

A reluctant smile fought its way onto my lips. Hiding my face behind a thick gray sweater, the truth tumbled out. “He is… massive. It was intense. But it changes nothing. The contract still stands.”

“Sure it does.” She rolled her eyes, falling back onto her bed with a dramatic groan. “You tame the biggest beast at Wartburg, secure the bag for your mom, and you want to act like it means nothing. You are crazy.”

Her words echoed in my head hours later.

Morning classes dragged by in a blur of endless lectures and whispered gossip. Every time my boots hit the hallway tiles, eyes locked onto me. Girls glared with venomous envy. Guys whispered behind their hands. The attention felt suffocating, but it proved one thing. The fake dating scheme was working. Davies wanted his name cleared of the playboy rumors. Now, he was the protective boyfriend who fought for his girl.

At noon, a text lit up my phone screen.

*Practice at one. Come watch. Wear my jersey.*

He did not ask. He commanded.

Walking to the ice arena, the cold autumn wind bit at my exposed cheeks. Davies waited near the front entrance. He leaned against the brick wall, wearing dark sweatpants and a tight black long-sleeve shirt. A giant Westbridge hockey duffel bag rested at his feet. The bruise on his jaw from Nathan’s wild punch stood out, purple and angry against his olive skin.

He pushed off the wall the second my figure came into view.

“You came.” A cocky grin spread across his face.

“You left me a jersey on my desk,” pointing to the oversized blue fabric swallowing my torso, a smirk touched my lips. “I figured showing up was part of the job description.”

“Smart girl.” He reached out, his large hand wrapping around the back of my neck. His thumb brushed the sensitive skin just beneath my hairline. The casual touch sent a fresh jolt of electricity straight down my spine. “Ready to see how real hockey is played?”

“Do not flatter yourself, Captain.”

He chuckled, grabbing his heavy bag and guiding me inside.

The arena air hit my lungs like a wall of solid ice. Frost clung to the thick plexiglass surrounding the rink. Bright halogen lights glared down on the pristine white surface. Dozens of Westbridge players skated in wide circles, their sharp blades carving deep grooves into the ice. The sound of sticks slapping rubber pucks echoed loud in the cavernous space.

Taking a seat in the second row of the metal bleachers, my hands pulled the sleeves of his jersey over my knuckles.

Davies hit the ice ten minutes later.

He wore full pads and his practice helmet, but his sheer size made him impossible to miss. From the moment his skates touched the rink, the entire atmosphere shifted. He did not just skate; he hunted.

Coach Vance blew a shrill whistle, signaling a mock scrimmage.

Watching Davies play was a cinematic experience. He moved with terrifying speed. His massive frame glided across the frozen surface like a freight train with zero brakes. A defender tried to box him out near the blue line. Davies dropped his shoulder, delivered a brutal check, and sent the guy crashing hard into the plexiglass. The boards rattled under the violent impact.

He stole the puck in a flash. His stick handling was a blur of calculated, precise movements. Two more defenders closed in. He spun around the first, slipped the puck between the second guy's skates, and drove straight for the net.

Raising his stick high, his core twisted tight. The slap shot echoed like a gunshot. The rubber puck smashed into the top right corner of the net before the goalie even flinched.

“Let’s go!” Davies roared, slamming his stick against the ice.

My breath caught in my throat. He was a machine. Pure power, raw talent, and ruthless aggression. Nathan always complained about practice. He skipped drills, blamed his teammates for his mistakes, and cared more about his hair than his stats. Davies bled for the game. He demanded perfection from himself and everyone around him.

For the next two hours, my eyes never left his blue jersey. Every hit, every sprint, every goal pulled me deeper into his orbit. My chest swelled with a strange, foreign emotion. Pride. I felt proud sitting there wearing his name on my back.

Practice ended with a series of grueling conditioning sprints. Coach Vance pushed them to the absolute limit. By the time the final whistle blew, sweat poured down their faces, turning the ice into a humid, foggy haze.

Walking down to the ground level, my boots clicked against the concrete tunnel leading toward the locker rooms.

The heavy locker room doors swung open. A wave of steam and the sharp smell of body wash flooded the hallway.

A group of Westbridge guys walked out first. Julian led the pack, his bleach-blonde hair damp and pushed back. Chad walked beside him, holding a protein shake.

“Look who it is,” Julian gasped, tossing his gym bag over his shoulder. “The WAG has arrived. Queen Maya in the flesh.”

“Shut up, Julian,” a laugh escaped my mouth.

“No, for real,” Chad chimed in, leaning against the cinderblock wall. “What kind of spell did you put on our captain? He played like a demon today. Dude was out for blood. I think he broke my ribs on that last check.”

“He is just focused,” crossing my arms, my defense mechanisms kicked in. “The Winter Invitational is next week.”

“Yeah, sure.” Julian rolled his eyes, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “It has nothing to do with the gorgeous girl wearing his jersey in the stands. You got him on a leash, babe. Keep it up. We need him angry.”

Another guy from the defensive line walked past, wiping his face with a towel. “You ruined Nathan’s life, Maya. Good job. Best trade deal in Wartburg history.”

They laughed, bumping fists as they walked away toward the campus parking lot. Their banter felt easy. Welcoming. It was a sharp contrast to the toxic, competitive drama that always surrounded Nathan’s crew.

Waiting near the equipment closet, the buzz of a text message vibrated against my thigh.

Reaching into the pocket of my jeans, the bright screen illuminated the dim hallway. It was not a text. It was a voice memo from an unsaved number.

A cold knot formed deep in my stomach.

Pressing the phone to my ear, my thumb tapped the play button.

Static hissed through the speaker first. Then came the sound of heavy, uneven breathing.

“You think this is over.”

Nathan’s voice scraped against my eardrum. It lacked the drunken slur from the bonfire. He sounded sober. Cold. Calculated.

“You think you can embarrass me in front of my own team and walk away untouched.” He paused, the silence stretching long enough to make my pulse pound in my neck. “Davies might have gotten a lucky punch. He might think he plays the hero in your little fantasy. But I am not backing down, Maya.”

A harsh, bitter laugh echoed through the recording.

“I know your schedule. I know where you work. I know exactly how much that hospital bill costs for your dying mother. Watch your back. Both of you. This war has just started, and I promise you, I will burn your new life to ashes.”