Chapter 3 Rory's Pov

By six in the morning, I had cleaned my apartment twice and hated myself for the third time before sunrise.

The kitchen counters were spotless. The living room rug had been vacuumed so aggressively it probably needed therapy. I had rearranged the throw pillows, wiped down the windows, scrubbed the bathroom sink and reorganized a bookshelf no one cared about except me.

Control.

That was what cleaning gave me. Control.

When my apartment was clean, I could pretend my life was not one bad headline away from collapse. When my skates were sharpened, my gear packed, my meals planned and my phone face down, I could pretend I was not constantly waiting for the next hit.

People thought I survived on stubbornness. They were wrong.

I survived by keeping distance.

Distance from teammates who smiled too easily. Distance from coaches who called cruelty “toughening up.” Distance from reporters who wanted tears and men who wanted gratitude for doing the bare minimum.

And especially distance from Jaxon Kane.

The doorbell rang just then. 

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Of course he was early.

I opened the door and prepared to say something sarcastic as usual but the words died somewhere behind my teeth.

Jaxon stood there in dark jeans, a black T-shirt under a grey jacket and that impossible, irritating face that looked like it had been designed to ruin perfectly good mornings. Two large boxes sat at his feet and a duffel bag hung from one shoulder.

In his right hand was coffee. He held it out.

“Oat milk,” he said. “Two sugars.”

I stared at the cup. Then at him.

“How do you know that?”

“You order it before morning practice.”

Incredulity filled my face. “You watch my coffee order?”

His expression did not change at all. “You drink coffee like it is a medical requirement. It is hard to miss.”

I took the cup because refusing caffeine on principle felt like self-harm.

“This does not make us friends,” I said though.

“I was not under that impression.”

“Good.”

His gaze moved past me into the apartment. “Can I come in or do we plan to perform the entire fake relationship in the hallway?”

I stepped aside and he carried the boxes in without another word.

My apartment was small by professional athlete standards which meant it did not have six bathrooms, an indoor gym or an elevator that opened directly into my ego. It had one bedroom, one bathroom, a tiny kitchen, a living room with too many books and a view of the building across the street.

Jaxon looked around.

“Cozy,” he said.

“It is called affordable.”

“I did not say it was bad.”

“You thought it loudly.”

That almost-smile threatened his mouth again. “You hear thoughts now?”

“Only arrogant ones. Yours are practically shouting.”

He set the boxes down by the couch. “Where do you want me?”

The question should not have done anything. Yet, it did.

Oh God, help me, I thought desperately.

I took a sip of coffee to buy time and nearly groaned because it was exactly perfect. 

God, how did he get my coffee so damn right? I thought with an inward sigh. 

“The couch,” I finally said.

His eyes dropped to it.

My couch was comfortable for me. I was five foot nine. But then, Jaxon was built like a wall learned how to skate.

He nodded once and simply said, “Fine.”

“You can complain. I know you want to.”

“I have slept in worse places.”

“Luxury hotels with bad pillows do not count as hardship.”

Something flickered in his face, quick and gone. “You would be surprised.”

I did not know what to do with that so I said nothing.

For the next hour, my apartment became a battlefield. Jaxon’s clothes appeared from boxes like an invasion. Expensive shirts. Dark sweaters. Training gear folded with military precision. A watch case that probably cost more than my first car. He took up space without trying and I hated that the apartment did not feel smaller exactly.

It simply felt different. Louder somehow, even when he was silent.

“You get one side of the closet,” I said.

He looked at the closet then back at me. “One side?”

“Yes.”

“There are two hangers.”

“Use them wisely.”

“Rory.”

“No. This is not your glass palace. This is my apartment. My rules.”

His eyes held mine for a second. “Your rules,” he repeated quietly.

Again, that tone. Like he was saying something else beneath the words. I turned away before I could wonder what.

While he unpacked, I noticed a worn hockey stick leaning carefully against one box. It did not match the rest of his things. Everything else about Jaxon was polished, controlled, expensive. But the stick was old, the tape frayed, the wood scratched with use. There was a faded signature along the blade:

To Jax. Keep your head up. — Dad.

I looked at it too long.

“That is not for public viewing,” Jaxon said to me. His voice had gone cold as he spoke.

I turned around.

He was watching me with the same expression he wore on the ice before a hit.

I swallowed hard before I could stop myself. “I was not touching it.”

“You were looking.”

“Usually that is allowed in homes with electricity.”

He crossed the room and picked up the stick, his grip tight as he did so. For a second, the hard captain disappeared and I saw something younger beneath him. Something wounded and furious that did not want witnesses. Then he placed the stick inside the closet and shut the door.

A photo slipped from one of the boxes as he moved.

I bent automatically to pick it up.

A young Jaxon stood beside a woman with silver-blonde hair and a perfect smile. He could not have been more than ten. His face in the picture was open, bright and painfully different from the man standing in front of me.

“That your mom?” I asked despite the tension from earlier.

His face closed so fast it was almost violent. “Yes.”

One word.

It was clear it was a locked door.

I handed him the photo. His fingers brushed mine but this time there was no spark. Only ice.

“Do not ask about her,” he said.

I lifted both hands. “Fine.”

The morning settled into something strange after that. We argued over closet space, then over fridge space then over the bathroom counter after he placed three expensive-looking bottles beside my moisturizer.

“What is all this?” I asked.

“Skincare.”

“You have more products than I do.”

“Your jealousy is showing.”

“My concern is showing. There is a difference.”

Then, to my complete shock, Jaxon cooked. He cooked actual food. Not protein powder poured sadly into a shaker. Food. Eggs, toast, avocado, grilled tomatoes and some kind of seasoned potatoes that smelled unfairly good.

I stood in the kitchen doorway and looked suspiciously at him. “Who are you?”

He did not look up from the pan. “Hungry?”

“That depends. Did you poison it?”

“If I wanted you dead, I had better opportunities during practice.”

“Comforting,” I replied dryly. 

He plated the food and handed it to me. I took one bite, then immediately regretted making eye contact with him because his expression said he knew exactly how good it was.

“Say it,” he said.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Say you are impressed.”

“I am mildly alarmed.”

“That is close enough,” he replied with a laugh. 

After breakfast, he played music from his phone while washing the pan. It was old rock. Dramatic. Loud. Predictable.

“You listen to breakup music for divorced dads?” I asked.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. “You listen to angry workout playlists made by people who think bass is a personality.”

“That is because bass is a personality.”

He laughed in response.

For a moment, we were almost normal.

That was the problem.

Normal with Jaxon Kane felt more dangerous than war.

By afternoon, Lena had sent us a document titled, ‘COUPLE BACKSTORY — FINAL APPROVED VERSION’, which was as horrifying as it sounded.

Jaxon and I sat on the couch, a safe distance apart, going through the lies we were expected to memorize.

“We bonded after a late practice?” I read aloud. “That is the best they could do?”

“It is believable.”

“No, it sounds like a sports detergent commercial.”

Jaxon relaxed back, his laptop open on his knees as he did so. “What would you prefer?”

“The truth.”

His eyes slid to mine.

I smiled without humor. “Relax, Captain. I am joking. We both know the truth is bad for business.”

Something shifted in his face but before I could read it, his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen and stood immediately.

“I need to take this.”

“Secret girlfriend?”

He did not smile. “No.”

He walked toward the kitchen, leaving his laptop open on the coffee table.

I told myself not to look.

I really did.

But then the screen lit up with a notification.

My eyes caught the words before I could stop them.

Re: Contract Amendment — Callahan Resolution Clause

The room tilted just then. 

Callahan. Resolution. Clause.

My name had no business sitting in Jaxon’s email beside words that sounded like they had been written by lawyers.

I did not click on it yet but my stomach dropped so hard it felt like it was falling through ice.

Jaxon returned less than a minute later. “You okay?”

I looked up too quickly. “Fine.”

His eyes narrowed. “You look pale.”

“Just tired.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

I stood. “Takes one to know one.”

The silence that followed was different from the others. His gaze moved from my face to the laptop, then back again. I walked to the bathroom before he could ask anything else.

By evening, we were dressed for team dinner. Mandatory bonding, according to Coach. Punishment with appetizers, according to me.

The restaurant was loud, dim and packed with Titans players who greeted Jaxon like a king and me like a punchline they were still deciding whether to laugh at.

Jaxon sat beside me because we had to sell it. His thigh brushed mine beneath the table.

I hated that I noticed. God, how I fucking hated it. 

The jokes started before the first round of drinks arrived.

“So, Captain,” Brad said from across the table, grinning like an idiot. “Did not know you were mentoring Callahan off the ice too.”

A few guys laughed. I reached for my water. Jaxon’s hand curled around his glass.

Someone else added, “Guess she finally found a way to get extra training time.”

More laughter came just then. 

I smiled because women like me learned early that sometimes smiling was armor. Sometimes silence was strategy. Sometimes letting men reveal themselves was better than wasting breath trying to prove they were exactly what everyone pretended they were not.

But Jaxon was not smiling. His shoulders had gone rigid.

“Enough,” he said with a growl and the table quieted a little in response.

Brad, because he was apparently committed to stupidity, moved his body forward. “What? We are all happy for you two.” His eyes slid to me. “So, Callahan, you always fuck your way into playing time or just this season?”

The table went dead immediately.

Jaxon moved so fast his chair scraped back. I caught his arm before he could lunge across the table.

Not because Brad did not deserve it.

He did.

But because Jaxon punching another man for me would only become another headline about Jaxon’s temper and my supposed drama.

I stood slowly and my voice came out Ice-cold as I spoke, “Brad, the only fucking happening here is how badly I am going to fuck up your stats when I steal every assist you thought you had coming. Watch me.”

No one moved at first. Then Marcus started clapping. A laugh broke from someone near the end of the table in a nervous and low manner. Brad’s face turned red.

I sat down then. Jaxon was staring at me like he was seeing me for the first time.

Back at the apartment, I could not settle. Adrenaline buzzed under my skin. I kicked off my shoes, paced the living room then stopped because Jaxon was still watching me from the doorway.

“You did not need me to defend you,” he said.

“No, I did not.”

His jaw flexed. “I know.”

“But you tried anyway.”

He looked away.

“Why?” I asked.

His gaze returned to mine.

The air changed just then. He took one step closer. Then another.

“You really do not know?”

My breath caught.

“This is fake,” I said, though it sounded weaker than I wanted. “You hate me.”

Jaxon stopped inches away.

His voice dropped. “I really, really do not.”

My heart hit my ribs. For a second, neither of us moved.

He was close enough that I could see the tiredness beneath his eyes. Close enough to smell his cologne. Close enough to remember the kiss outside the restaurant and how my body had betrayed me by wanting more.

His gaze lowered to my mouth.

I should have stepped back.

I did not.

Jaxon's phone rang just then and he froze at first. He checked the screen and whatever he saw drained every trace of warmth from his face.

“I have to take this,” he said. 

He walked into the bedroom and closed the door. I stood in the living room, still breathing like I had just sprinted laps while I eavesdropped. 

His voice came through the wall, low and muffled.

“…told you not to call.”

Pause.

“No. That does not change anything.”

Another pause.

Then,

“The contract is the contract.”

I stopped breathing just then. 

Ten minutes later, he came out.

The man who had nearly kissed me was gone. The Ice King was back.

He grabbed his jacket from the chair.

“I am sleeping at a hotel tonight,” he said. “Need space.”

I stared at him. “What just happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Jaxon.”

He looked at me then and the emptiness in his face scared me more than his anger ever had.

“That is the problem,” he said. “Nothing can happen.”

Then he left and the door shut behind him. The apartment became too quiet. For a long moment, I stood there with my pulse pounding in my ears. Then I turned toward the coffee table.

His laptop was still open. The email was still there. My hands shook as I clicked it.

What I read made my blood run cold.