Chapter 3

POV: Connor

Hangovers at Northpoint aren’t just a consequence—they’re biblical. It’s the kind of punishment that makes you want to call your mother and apologize for everything you’ve ever done, even the stuff you haven’t gotten caught for.

My mouth tastes like stale beer and regret. My head feels like a hockey team used it as a shooting target. Light stabs me right in the eyes, a personal vendetta from the sun itself, and my phone is buzzing with more notifications than a Vegas slot machine on a hot streak.

I’m not dead, but my dignity probably is.

I groan, roll over, and swipe at my phone like it personally offended me. My lock screen is a graveyard of team group chat memes, DMs from people whose names I can’t remember, and one from my mother reminding me to hydrate.

I briefly consider dying in bed just to avoid the pain of verticality, but the ache in my stomach and my bladder make that impossible.

The night before comes back in flashes—bass vibrating up through the floor, beer sloshing in Solo cups, Tyson Bennett gliding through the chaos like some kind of dark-haired socialite deity. He’s the reason I show up at these parties.

Tyson, in clothes that probably cost more than my entire secondhand wardrobe, hair shiny, laugh bottled for export. He’s the fantasy—three years of chasing his shadow around campus, acting like any minute, I’ll finally be his MVP.

Except last night, the fantasy cracked.

Because then—then there was him. The blonde with the smart mouth, hazel-green eyes, and the zero-fucks-given stare that saw right through my game.

I swear to God, I didn’t even notice him at first. Then suddenly, it was like every other person in the room faded into obscurity, and all I could see was him—all sass and sarcasm, radiating “don’t even try me” energy.

He looked at me like I was a minor inconvenience and maybe a little fun, like he’d already guessed my stats and was giving me a passing grade out of pity. Hot. So hot it was infuriating.

Like, how dare you not want to fall at my feet? What’s wrong with you? Why do I like it?

I remember the way he bantered—verbal foreplay, quick and sharp. The upstairs hookup was… Jesus.

I’m grinning into my pillow, helpless to stop the shit-eating smile on my face. He fought me for control, bit my bottom lip hard enough to leave a mark, raked his nails down my back, and left me somewhere between worship and exorcism.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was raw, unfiltered, and honest—the kind of sex you write a confessional about, except I’m not Catholic and my confessions are between me and my right hand.

He made me forget to be captain. He made me forget Tyson.

For a few minutes, I got to be a guy who wanted a guy, not some high school stereotype playing varsity hero.

By the time I make it to the rink, I’ve mainlined three cups of shitty dorm coffee and popped enough ibuprofen to risk liver failure. The locker room is a humid mess of equipment, Axe body spray, and loud opinions.

Owen is taping his stick, jaw set in that special “my father’s a Marine” kind of focus. Dylan is sprawled on the bench, half-naked, scrolling his phone like it’s a goddamn modeling shoot.

“Look who finally rises from the dead,” Dylan drawls, grinning like he invented hangovers. “Rough night, Cap? Or did you get lost looking for your balls?”

I flip him off, tossing my gear bag onto the bench with extra force for good measure. “Shut it, McCarthy.”

Owen barely glances up, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Heard you disappeared.”

“Who’s keeping track?” I mutter, trying to sound casual while my body still aches from last night in ways that have nothing to do with hockey.

“Half the team,” Owen deadpans. “Captain leaves a party with a guy? Shit, that’s practically a campus-wide announcement.”

Dylan is practically vibrating with glee. “Extra, extra! Golden Boy ditches Tyson Bennett for mysterious blonde. Please tell me he was nuts. The hot ones are always a little crazy. I like someone who might try to set my car on fire.”

“He was hot,” I say, keeping my face blank, but Maxime’s smirk flashes in my brain and my mouth wants to twitch. “Just… wild. In the best possible way.”

Owen raises an eyebrow. “Wild enough to make you forget about Tyson?”

I try for a nonchalant shrug, peeling off my hoodie. “Better than standing around watching Tyson flirt with every guy in a three-mile radius.”

Dylan laughs, stretching. “You mean better than you drooling in your corner, pining like a twelve-year-old with a crush on his babysitter? Dude, you’ve got that guy on a marble pedestal. He probably gets nosebleeds at that altitude.”

“Tyson’s different,” I snap, defensive before I can even process why.

Owen’s voice is low. “Different how?”

I open my mouth and realize I don’t have an answer. Not a real one. “He’s Tyson. He’s the dream—the guy you bring home, not just the one you take upstairs.”

Owen snorts, standing up, stick in hand. “You’ve built him up so much, nobody—even Tyson—can live up to him. Try living in reality, for once.”

I focus on my laces, yanking them until my skates bite into my ankles. “Let’s go. If Coach is in a mood, I’d rather skate than listen to you two psychoanalyze my love life.”

⸻

Practice is hell, and honestly, I deserve it. Coach is in rare form, yelling like he’s auditioning for Miracle on Ice, making us do suicides until my lungs feel like they’re bleeding.

I throw myself into it, every sprint a way to exorcise Maxime’s laugh, his legs wrapped around me, the taste of him on my tongue. I need hockey to scrub him from my system, but the ice doesn’t work miracles.

After, I’m slumped in the locker room, sweat drying in cold patches under my pads, doomscrolling through group chats and party invites. It’s the usual mess—memes, inside jokes, thirst traps, a DM from a guy named Darren.

My thumbs hover over Tyson’s name for a long moment. That’s what I’m supposed to want. He’s perfect. Untouchable. My personal varsity prom date.

Dylan brings me back to earth. “Cap, you gonna give us the play-by-play, or what? Don’t make me crowdsource this shit.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I say, voice flat, tugging my shirt over my head.

“Bullshit,” Dylan fires back. “You vanished with him. What’s his name?”

Owen glances up, finally looking me in the eye. “Maxime. Maxime Tremblay.”

I freeze, shirt tangled around my face. “How do you know that?”

Owen smirks. “Because I pay attention. Junior. Journalism major. He works at The Meeting Point. Try talking to people sometime.”

I force a laugh. “It was a hookup. That’s all. One and done. Conditioning. Tyson’s the endgame.”

Dylan grins. “So, Tyson’s the championship trophy, and Maxime’s the pregame warm-up?”

“Exactly.” Except it’s not. Except I can still feel Maxime’s nails in my skin, hear his moan echoing in my ears. “Tyson’s the win.”

But it’s a lie. And I know it.

The dorm is too quiet that night, the walls closing in. My body’s exhausted, but my brain won’t shut up.

Every time I close my eyes, I see Maxime. Not Tyson.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m walking to The Meeting Point. I tell myself it’s just for a beer, but my stomach knows it’s a lie.

The place is packed—hockey banners, TVs screaming about the Bruins, people already halfway to wasted. And there he is.

Maxime, black tee tight across his chest, jeans painted on, pouring drinks like he’s been running this bar since birth.

He doesn’t see me at first. When he does, his eyes narrow in challenge, like he’s daring me to try something.

“Captain,” he calls out, wiping his hands on a bar towel.

“Hater,” I shoot back, propping myself up on the bar.

He snorts. “What’ll it be?”

“Anything. Bitterest you’ve got.”

He pulls a pint, slides it over without looking. “Bitter. Typical.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You got me figured out?”

He leans in, eyes sparkling. “You look like the kind of guy who orders the strongest thing on the menu to seem complicated, but deep down, you’re just a juice box and nap kind of man.”

I bark a laugh, surprised by how good it feels. “Maybe you’ll find out one day.”

“Maybe,” he teases, already off to pour shots for a rowdy table of seniors.

But he glances back, catches me watching. There’s a dare in his eyes.

I tilt my head toward the hallway, the same silent invitation as before. He hesitates for a split second, then slides his towel into his belt and disappears into the back.

My heart pounds in my ears as I follow, nerves jangling.

The hallway is cold, the hum of the walk-in fridge vibrating up through my shoes. Maxime is already leaning against the metal shelf, arms crossed, lips curved in a smirk.

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve, McLeod.”

I crowd his space, loving how he doesn’t flinch—just straightens his spine and stares me down. “It’s called confidence.”

“You’ve got two minutes,” he says, voice daring, but his breathing is already a little off.

I crowd him, pin him to the shelf, mouth on him in a kiss that’s more collision than invitation. He yanks my hair, I bite his jaw.

I shove his jeans down, fingers finding him slick and ready. He’s shaking, his laugh a wrecked thing against my mouth.

“You want me to stop?” I rasp.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Captain. I can take it.”

That’s all I need. I grab a condom—thank you, foresight—rip it open with my teeth.

He wraps his legs around my waist, and I drive into him in one long, brutal thrust. He gasps, fingernails digging in, and I have to pause, panting against his neck because holy hell, the tightness.

He clings, muttering curses and encouragement into my ear, and I can barely hold it together.

I move, fast and rough, the shelving rattling with every thrust. He begs for harder, and I give it to him, sweat pouring, teeth gritted.

He bites my shoulder—hard. I’ll have the bruise tomorrow. It’s worth it.

He comes first, shuddering, gasping my name in a voice that’ll haunt me for weeks.

I lose it, coming so hard my knees almost buckle. I keep him pinned, chest to chest, both of us breathing like we just finished a marathon.

He checks his watch, that infuriating smirk back on his lips. “Minute forty-five. Not bad, Captain. But next time, try for overtime.”

I grin, press a filthy kiss to his mouth. “Next time, I want the whole damn game.”

He laughs, shoves at me, tugs his jeans up, hair wild and cheeks flushed.

He slips out into the main bar, already in bartender mode, tossing a bottle of water at me without looking. “Hydrate. You look wrecked.”

I chug the water, leave a twenty, and head outside.

The cold air bites my skin, but my insides are still on fire. I should want Tyson Bennett . He’s the dream. The one I’m supposed to chase.

But all I can think about is the guy who just ruined me in a storage hallway—and made me hope he will do it again.