Tasting My Hockey Roommate Novels & Stories

I'm lying in bed scrolling through the messages again when my roommate Emma pokes her head through my door. "You're smiling at your phone," she observes. "That's new." I immediately stop smiling. "No I'm not." "You totally were. Let me guess—the holy trinity of hockey hotness?" She grins and flops onto the end of my bed without waiting for permission. "Girl, the whole campus is talking about last night. You sat in their booth. Tyler Morrison almost got his face rearranged. This is major." "It's not major. We just got food."

I sliced through a piece of toast, listening to the quiet, muted hum of the morning news playing softly on the built-in kitchen display across the room. Most athletes aren't morning people, but I liked to consider myself as one. This was my favourite part of each day. It was supposed to be my moment of peace, thirty minutes to one hour of pure peace before everyone and everything around me began to demand that I become Luca Devereaux, Captain of the Chicago Phantoms, the unshakeable, perfect face of professional hockey. My phone vibrated against the marble island. I paused, chewing slowly on a piece of bacon as I stared at the strange number.

RYDER'S POV The bass from the speakers vibrates through the floorboards of the off-campus house, a rhythmic thumping that matches the pulse of the crowded room. The air is thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of spilled mixed drinks. It’s a victory riot, the kind of chaotic celebration that only follows a championship win, and the hockey team is at the center of the storm.

“Uh? I cleared my throat and made my voice sound deeper. “It’s healed already, you don’t have to worry.” “Whatever you say, Kaius.” He chuckled, and his hand went around my shoulder. I felt my breath hang, I have never been this close to Cameron, but now I could smell him. “Your roommate has been changed after the game, guess who you’re stuck with now?” He glanced at me with a lazy stare. “Who?” I asked, and tried to push him away from me but his arms around me tightened. “…Aimes Grevensor, the hockey captain.” He stood in front of me, his hand left my shoulders. “Your biggest hater.” His head leveled down to my eyes, he was staring intently into my brown eyes.

She delivered this with the flat expression of someone who had been around hockey players long enough to treat their behavior as weather — observable, often destructive, not worth trying to control. “I don’t—” “You don’t have to explain. I’ve stopped asking why Marcus does things. It’s better for my blood pressure.” She stood, adjusted her lens, and walked to the far end of the media room where the angle to the ice was apparently superior. I stared at my screen. *The fully clothed version.* So he remembered. Of course he remembered. He’d stolen his roommate’s phone, given me an accidental tour of the Dalton locker room’s uncensored anatomy, and then presumably been exiled to the hallway for

“This house is becoming a total wall-to-wall bromance.” Scanning the room, Diego saw the truth in Javier’s assessment. The space was packed with hockey players—wolves in human skin—dominating the beer pong tables and taking systematic shots in the kitchen. He knew a standard campus mixer would only trigger memories of Kol—specifically the night they first crossed paths—so he welcomed the insulation of the guys. Javier, however, was hunting for a different scenery.

“Who are you eating with?” “We’re just having some ice cream. It’s Will. He’s in the bathroom.” Eating with Will? Drinking with Will? I scoff and run my fingers into my hair. The overly aggressive side of me says that Will is a dead man, testing the waters in no man’s land. The passive side of me … who am I kidding? There is no passive side of me. “Right, makes sense. He’s our roommate, after all. Because giving underage girls alcohol seems to be a hobby of his. You’re still a kid,” I say, eyes daring her to argue.

The hockey team lived for this shit—cheap beer, too many girls, and enough testosterone to choke a pack of alphas. “Relax,” he muttered to me as we stepped inside. “Drink. Smile. Pretend you’re not about to implode.” I forced my shoulders down, scanning the crowd. Wolves everywhere—some I recognized from rival schools, others I didn’t know. Hands shoved drinks at me before I even made it to the kitchen. Killian grabbed one too, raising it in a mock toast before downing half of it in one go. I lifted the cup to my lips. The burn slid down my throat, warm and sharp, but instead of dulling my edges, it only sharpened them. I drank again. And again. Killian clapped my back, laughing when I almos

That ruled out River and basically every other female friend I had. Then there was Kimberly. She lived off-campus like me, but her place was a revolving door for random guys. She brought home guys from her major, guys from the clubs, and even jocks from the athletics department. The last thing I needed was to walk into her apartment one night and lock eyes with one of my own hockey teammates. I could already taste the pure, unadulterated awkwardness.

And the time would come to prove it. My muscles were complaining below the sports clothes, but I had to drag myself to the room to be able to have dinner, because if not, I would have continued in the training room and made them serve me food in my mouth. The tiredness was so much that I hadn't even noticed that the food was already served on the table when I dragged myself around the room and threw myself on the bed with open arms. My roommate was already sitting, and was lonely devouring a big pheasant. He didn't even look at me when I went in. He didn't even make any move that could indicate to me that he was alert to defend himself at any moment. He cut the pieces of the bird gently with