CHAPTER 1
"Oh Ryder, you are so sweet...don't stop...."
The moans were tormenting my head again.
Rhythmic, heavy, and loud enough to make the wall of the university suite vibrate.
I lay on my back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling of my bedroom. My eyes burned from a grueling twelve-hour double shift of sharpening skates and scrubbing ice-prep machine grease, but sleep was a joke.
Every gasp from the next room felt like a physical blow to my chest.
I reached out, my fingers tracing the cracked rubber of the hockey puck sitting on my nightstand. It was scarred with deep cuts from steel blades, the initials M.S. faded but still legible in black sharpie.
My father’s initials. The coach who practically raised me on the ice before his heart gave out on the bench four years ago.
Now, I was just a scholarship girl pulling double shifts to survive Westbridge University without drowning in debt. And on the other side of my bedroom wall, Ryder—the elite captain of the hockey team, my late father’s prized recruit, and the only person who held me while I wept at the funeral—was destroying whatever sanctuary I had left.
With Bianca. My wealthy, self-absorbed roommate.
The thudding against the wall grew faster, more reckless. Bianca was putting on a show, making sure I heard every single second of her victory over me.
“Ryder… harder...please. I want to c*m again oh god!,” she groaned, her voice dripping with deliberate sweetness.
Something inside me finally snapped.
The grief, the exhaustion, and the humiliating agony of a four-year silent crush boiled over. I threw my thin blanket aside, my bare feet hitting the cold linoleum floor before my brain could stop me.
I yanked my door open, marched down the dark, narrow hallway, and slammed my fist against Bianca’s door with enough force to rattle the hinges.
"Shut the hell up!" I screamed, my voice raw and trembling. "Someone's trying to catch some sleep! I have a lot of work tomorrow morning."
The sound stopped instantly.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the apartment. I stood there for a heartbeat, my chest heaving, before turning on my heel and retreating back into my dark bedroom. I shut the door, leaning my back against it as my hands shook.
I shouldn't have done that. I had broken the cardinal rule: Keep your head down. Don't let them see you bleed.
Less than two minutes later, a sharp, demanding knock rattled my door.
I pulled it open, expecting Bianca's usual snobbish glare. But when she pushed her way into my small room, my breath hitched in my throat.
She was wearing Ryder’s dark-green varsity hockey jersey. The heavy wool hung loose on her shoulders, the scent of his cologne—cold cedar and expensive leather—practically suffocating me.
"You've got a lot of nerve," Bianca whispered, stepping close enough that she pinned me back against my dresser.
"I have work in five hours, Bianca. Just keep it down," I muttered, refusing to look at the emblem on her chest.
"Oh, please. This isn't about your shift, Maya." Bianca smirked, her eyes gleaming with a cruel, sharp realization. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a toxic whisper. "You’re in love with him, aren’t you? You’ve been pinning after him like a pitiful little puppy. And every time he touches me, you feel like dying."
My lungs seized. I couldn't draw in air. The raw, exposed truth of her words felt like a physical chokehold.
Before I could even attempt to find a lie to defend myself, the heavy front door of our suite clicked open.
Slow, heavy, athletic footsteps marched down the hallway.
The footsteps stopped directly at my open doorway.
Ryder stood there.
He was broad-shouldered, towering over the doorframe in dark gray sweatpants. His hair was damp from a recent shower, a few dark curls clinging to his forehead, and his jaw was set tight.
He didn't look at Bianca. Not even for a fraction of a second.
His dark, intense eyes locked directly onto my face. He took in my pale skin, my trembling hands, and the unshed tears burning in my eyes.
"Ryder, thank God," Bianca immediately whined, pivoting to wrap her hand around his bicep. "Maya just screamed at me. She's completely psycho, and I want her—"
"Get out, Bianca."
Ryder's voice was a low, gravelly baritone. It was quiet, but it held a terrifying weight that brooked zero argument.
Bianca blinked, stunned. "What? But she—"
"Go back to your room," Ryder repeated, his gaze still entirely fixed on me. "Now."
Bianca's face flushed with deep humiliation. She let go of his arm, glaring at me with pure venom before rushing out of the room, slamming her door down the hall.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ryder stepped fully into my bedroom. He reached behind himself, grabbed the edge of my door, and quietly turned the lock.
The click of the deadbolt sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
He turned back to me, his massive frame completely consuming my small space. He walked toward me, slow and deliberate, until he was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating off his chest.
I pressed my back harder against the dresser, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Ryder reached out. His large, warm hand was calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but his touch was agonizingly gentle as his thumb caught my chin, tilting my face up to force me to look at him.
His eyes searched mine, dark and dangerous.
"What were you two just talking about, Maya?" he whispered, his thumb lightly brushing across my bottom lip. "Look at me and tell me."
