CAPTAIN’S COLD WELCOME

The locker room smelled like every battle I had ever fought and lost in silence—stale sweat, worn leather, and the sharp bite of menthol muscle rub. I waited in the dim hallway as long as I could, listening to the heavy footsteps and low voices fade until only the hum of the ventilation system remained. My hands still trembled from the memory of Caleb’s body pressed against mine on the ice. I needed these stolen minutes alone. I needed to peel away the armor without twenty-three pairs of eyes reminding me that I was the intruder here.

I slipped inside.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the wooden benches and metal lockers. My skin still felt too warm, too tight. Every shift of my compression layer brought back the ghost of his gloved hand on my waist, the steady drum of his heartbeat against my spine. It had been nothing more than a stance correction. Yet it had carved itself into me like a scar I couldn’t ignore.

I sat down and began unlacing my skates with deliberate care, focusing on the familiar ritual to steady my breathing. The shoulder pads came next. I peeled them off slowly, revealing the damp fabric beneath. The cool air kissed my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.

The steel door slammed open with a sound like thunder.

I startled upright. Caleb Ruiz filled the doorway, still fully geared except for his helmet. Dark hair clung to his forehead in damp strands. Sweat glistened along the sharp line of his jaw. His grey eyes locked onto me instantly, narrowing with unmistakable displeasure.

“Everyone else cleared out,” he said, voice low and rough as gravel under skates. “You planning on making this your personal changing room, Jones?”

I forced my spine straight, refusing to cover myself or shrink away. I had spent too many years being told to hide. “I was giving the team space, Captain. I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”

He stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him with finality. Each thud of his skates on the rubber mats echoed like a countdown. His gaze traveled over me—not crude, but heavy. Deliberate. It traced the line of my collarbone, the rapid pulse at my throat, the rise and fall of my chest as I fought to breathe normally. For one fleeting second, the cold mask cracked. Something raw and conflicted flashed in his eyes. Hunger. Anger. A war he clearly resented losing.

Then the ice returned, sharper than before.

“You wanted onto my team,” he said, voice dropping. “You wanted to be one of us. There’s no special treatment here. No curtains. No privacy. If you can’t handle walking into the same room as the rest of us, you never should’ve stepped on that ice.”

He reached for the hem of his jersey and pulled it off in one fluid motion. The movement revealed the hard planes of his torso, muscles carved from years of brutal conditioning, skin still flushed from practice. I looked away immediately, cheeks burning, but the small space made escape impossible. I could hear the rustle of pads being removed, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scent of winter air and exertion that clung to him.

It filled the room. It filled my lungs.

“Coach confirmed you’re staying,” he continued, closer now. His voice came from just behind me. “For now. But the moment you become a distraction—if you cost us even one game because you’re in over your head—I will make sure you’re gone. Personally.”

I stood abruptly and turned to face him.

He was closer than I expected. Shirtless, radiating heat that cut through the chilled air. I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Our chests nearly brushed. The space between us felt charged, alive with everything we weren’t saying. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscle jumped. His fingers flexed at his sides, as though he was physically restraining himself from reaching out.

“Message received,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could. “Stay out of your way. Off the ice and on it. Anything else, Captain?”

He leaned in a fraction. Not touching. Not needing to. The air itself seemed to thicken. I could see the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the way his pulse beat visibly in his neck. His gaze dropped to my lips for half a heartbeat before snapping back up.

“Keep your head down, Jones,” he whispered. The words brushed against my skin like a warning and a confession at once. “Don’t look for me. Don’t speak to me unless I speak first. Whatever game you think you’re playing… you’ll lose.”

He snatched a towel from the rack, knuckles white, and stalked toward the shower area. The door slammed behind him. A moment later, water roared to life.

I stood frozen, chest heaving, emotions tangling into something painful and sharp. Anger. Defiance. And beneath it all, an unwelcome, fluttering awareness I despised. I changed as quickly as my shaking hands allowed, pulling on a hoodie and sweats, desperate for the parking lot’s cold night air.

I was almost at the exit when my phone vibrated.

I pulled it out, heart still racing.

Unknown Number (Campus Housing):
Emergency update. University dorms at full capacity due to flooding repairs. Your assignment has been reassigned to the off-campus athletic residence. Report to 114 Oak Street tomorrow at 08:00 for key pickup and room assignment.

My stomach dropped.

114 Oak Street.

The hockey house.

Caleb’s house.

I stared at the glowing screen until the letters blurred. Thin walls. Shared spaces. Twenty-three men who already resented my presence—and one captain who looked at me like I was both a threat and something he couldn’t look away from.

The arena loomed behind me in the darkness, a silent witness to the collision course I was now locked onto. I had fought my entire life to stand on equal ground with men like Caleb Ruiz.

Now I was being forced to live under the same roof as the one who wanted me gone most of all.

How was I supposed to survive sharing a house with the man whose very presence already made my carefully built walls feel paper-thin?