Oops! I'm Living With The Hockey Captain

Rose Murphy

Moving day was supposed to be a milestone. A clean slate. A perfectly orchestrated transition into my junior year at the University of Toronto, complete with cheap takeout, a reasonably quiet environment, and a roommate who understood the basic, unspoken laws of human boundaries.

Instead, it was a waking nightmare.

My back felt like it had been run over by a Zamboni after hauling three oversized moving boxes up four flights of stairs because the elevator was "out of service until further notice." My fingers were raw, my oversized gray hoodie was damp with sweat, and all I wanted—all my soul craved—was to drop my heavy duffel bag, collapse onto a bed, and sleep for the next business week.

I unlocked the door to Apartment 4B, expecting emptiness. Or maybe a quiet girl unpacking books.

I got neither.

The second the door swung open, the scent hit me first. It wasn't the smell of old paint or cardboard boxes. It was the crisp, overwhelming scent of mint body wash, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of cold, winter air.

Then came the visual. And oh boy, it was a visual.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen was a towering wall of pure, unadulterated muscle. He was six-foot-three of broad shoulders, a sculpted back that looked like it had been chiseled out of marble, and nothing, absolutely nothing, but a dangerously low-slung white towel gripping his hips. Water droplets were still sliding down the deep groove of his spine, tracing the sharp lines of his obliques before disappearing beneath the terry cloth.

I froze. My muscles locked. My brain completely short-circuited. My heavy duffel bag slipped from my numb fingers, hitting the hardwood floor with a loud, echoey thud.

The guy spun around. Fast. His dark, messy hair whipped with the movement, sending a few stray droplets of water flying onto the granite countertop. He had sharp, striking features, a jawline that could probably cut glass and a pair of piercing, icy-blue eyes that immediately narrowed the second they landed on me.

If looks could freeze water, I would have been a human ice sculpture right then and there.

"Who the hell are you?" his voice rasped. It was deep, rough, and completely devoid of anything resembling hospitality. "And how did you get into my apartment?"

I blinked, forcing my gaze to snap violently upward, tearing my eyes away from his absurdly defined eight-pack. Focus, Rose. Do not look at the abs. He is trespassing.

"I'm Rose," I stammered, pulling my shoulders back to look as imposing as a five-foot-four girl in baggy sweatpants could look. "The new tenant. I signed the lease last week. Who are you? The plumber?"

The guy let out a harsh, dry laugh. It wasn't a happy sound. He crossed his massive arms over his chest, which, honestly, was a tactical error on his part because it only made his biceps bulge to a ridiculous degree and leaned back against the counter.

"The plumber?" he repeated, his tone dripping with pure, concentrated mockery. "Try again, sweetheart. I live here. This is my apartment."

"Excuse me?" Rage, hot and sudden, flared up in my chest, effectively burning away my exhaustion. I yanked my phone out of my pocket, my fingers shaking slightly as I tapped open my emails. "Look, buddy, I don't know what kind of twisted frat-boy prank this is, but I have the official university housing confirmation right here. Apartment 4B. Room 17."

The exact moment the words Room 17 left my mouth, his entire demeanor shifted. The annoyance vanished, replaced by a cold, deadly seriousness. He took a slow, deliberate step toward me.

Suddenly, the open-concept apartment felt suffocatingly small. He invaded my space without even trying, towering over me like a storm cloud.

"Listen to me very carefully," he said, dropping his voice an octave, his tone dangerously quiet. "I don't know if you're one of those puck bunnies from the arena who tracked down my address, or if this is some sick joke my defensemen are playing on me, but you picked the wrong day. Pack your bag and get out before I call campus security."

Puck bunny? Arena? Defensemen?

My brain scrambled for a second before my eyes darted past his broad shoulder, taking in the living room for the first time.

Propped against the arm of the gray sofa was a sleek, matte-black Bauer hockey stick. Hanging on the wall directly above it was a framed jersey, navy blue and white, with the word TORONTO stitched across the front in bold block letters. And right beneath it, a massive, unmissable number 17.

Drake Morvane.

The name hit me like a slap in the face. I didn't follow sports, but you couldn't survive a single week on this campus without seeing his face on banners, student flyers, and sports headlines. He was the star captain of the Toronto Varsity Blues hockey team. The campus golden boy. The resident ice royalty who was notorious for being completely untouchable, fiercely private, and notoriously anti-social.

And I was currently standing in his kitchen while he wore nothing but a towel.

"I don't care if you're the king of Canada," I snapped, the filter between my brain and my mouth completely disintegrating. "I have spent the last three hours hauling my entire life up four flights of stairs. I paid a two-month deposit for this place, and I am not sleeping on a park bench in thirty-degree weather just because you think you own the city. I am not leaving."

Drake stared at me. For a long, agonizingly tense moment, neither of us breathed. He looked at me like I was a strange, irritating insect that had just crawled through his window and demanded a seat at his table.

"You think you're staying here?" he asked, a dark, dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "With me?"

"If I have to," I shot back, lifting my chin defiantly. "So you better go put some actual pants on, Captain, because we need to figure out who is calling the landlord first."

Drake didn't break eye contact. He leaned in just a fraction closer, enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his skin. "You're making a huge mistake, Rose."

"I guess we'll find out," I whispered back, my heart hammering against my ribs, partly from anger, and partly from the terrifying realizations of what my junior year was about to look like.

Welcome to Toronto, Rose. Population: You and a very p*ss*d-off hockey captain.

ROSE

Five minutes. That was exactly how long Drake Morvane took to change, and every single second of it felt like a countdown to an explosion.

I stood in the exact same spot in the kitchen, refusing to budge, as if leaving my square meter of hardwood floor meant surrendering the war. To keep my eyes from wandering back to the hallway where the towel had disappeared, I forced myself to look around the apartment.

Aside from the hockey stick and the framed jersey, the place was annoyingly pristine. It was an open-concept loft with exposed brick walls, industrial light fixtures, and a massive leather sofa that looked like it cost more than my entire tuition.

There was a sleek kitchen island separating us, currently holding a half-empty gallon of protein milk and a violently green smoothie.

The heavy thud of footsteps echoed from the corridor.

I braced myself, pulling my shoulders back as Drake walked back into the room. He had swapped the towel for a