DIRTY LITTLE ROOMMATE: Claimed by the Hockey Captain

It's Party Time

AppleMoore State University lost the game by a single point.

And just like that, the Kingsley Knights secured their spot in the regional semifinals.

It was an absolute, blood-pumping nightmare of a match. At first, we all assumed it would be an easy walk in the park, but the AppleMoore Devils pulled out a dirty, aggressive hidden playbook in the second period.

They started playing dirty—hooking our wingers, throwing unsportsmanlike elbows behind the ref’s back, and taking cheap shots at our guys' knees.

Things got so heated in the final five minutes that Noah Bennett almost got into a full-on fistfight with the AppleMoore captain right on the center ice, the two of them getting nose-to-nose before the refs dragged them apart.

Even though the game ended half an hour ago, Jaxon Hayes is still cursing up a storm in the hallway, muttering about how he's going to track down their defenseman at the next away game and put him through a glass window.

Meanwhile, Lia and I are running around like frantic chickens, managing the post-game media press boards and sound checks. We are doing everything in our human power to make sure we don't give Dan Miller a single reason to bark at us today.

So far, we've been doing surprisingly great—except for the first five-minute window earlier where Lia and I almost forgot to hand out the official stat sheets to the regional sports reporters.

We caught the mistake just in time, practically sprinting across the press room to slide the papers onto their desks before anyone noticed.

Right now, the key players are lined up against the black media backdrop for post-game interviews. Lia and I are standing off to the side in the backstage shadow, watching the reporters fire questions at them.

My eyes automatically stay glued to Carter.

He stands tall in his dark green post-game polo shirt, his hair still slightly damp. He looks calm, twirling a microphone between his long fingers as he smoothly answers a reporter's trick question about the refereeing.

I absentmindedly twirl my plastic intern ID card around my thumb, watching the flex of his broad chest every time he speaks into the mic.

Dan Miller suddenly pops up beside us, tapping my shoulder with his notorious red pen. "Davis, run these signed media waivers down to the equipment room for Harper Kim before they lock up the storage lockers."

"On it, Mr. Miller," I nod, taking the folder from his hand and giving Lia a quiet look. "I'll be right back."

An hour later, our official duties are finally finished.

Head Coach Whitaker calls the entire department into the hallway for a brief wrap-up meeting. We all gather against the cinderblock wall of the athletic corridor—players, coaches, equipment managers, and us two interns.

Coach Whitaker steps into the center of the circle, letting out a sigh before raising his large hands and slowly clapping. The entire room erupts into loud cheers and table-slapping.

"Good grind out there tonight, boys," Whitaker barks. "You played through their dirty tricks, kept your cool—mostly, Bennett—and brought home the win. Drink your protein, get some sleep, and don't end up on the local police blotter tonight."

The entire room snickers, the players groaning and snorting at his warning. Lia and I cover our mouths, snickering along with them.

The second Coach Whitaker and Dan Miller exit through the double doors, the formal energy vanishes. The team erupts into chaotic noise, the guys shoving each other, shouting, and planning their post-game celebrations.

"Team house! Ten minutes!" Hunter Brooks hollers over the noise.

Lia nudges my side hard, leaning in to whisper in my ear. "Rhea... I really want to go to the team house party tonight. Please tell me we can go."

I whisper back, giving her a skeptical look. "Lia, we're the interns. We can't just crash the official players' victory party."

Lia pouts, her bottom lip sticking out dramatically.

Before I can comfort her, a deep voice cuts through our hushed conversation.

"Hey! Davis! Jacobs!"

I turn around. Noah Bennett is standing a few feet away, a smile on his face as he wipes a towel over his neck. "You two coming to the victory party tonight? You worked your asses off managing those press guys."

I stare at the team captain, my mind halting. "Oh... we can't—"

"How can we say no? Thank you so much, Noah! We'd love to!" Lia cuts me off, her voice practically bursting with hyperactive excitement.

I close my mouth, shooting Lia a sharp side-eye, but she ignores me.

Sebastian Russo, leans against the wall nearby and lets out a booming laugh. "Hell yeah! Bring some non-hockey energy into that house. If I have to listen to Logan analyze his line-changes over beer pong one more time, I’m going to throw myself off the roof."

Logan Pierce rolls his eyes, tossing a roll of athletic tape at Bash's head. "Shut up, Russo. You're the one who cries in the kitchen after three shots of tequila."

"That was ONE time, Logan! And my dog had just gotten neutered!" Bash shoots back defensively, making the surrounding guys burst into loud, mocking laughter.

Carter glances at Noah, then his hazel-grey eyes slide over to me.

"The more the merrier, boys," Carter says smoothly, leaning against the doorframe. "Just make sure someone hides the good liquor from Hayes."

I glance at Carter, a lump forming in my throat. This is going to be the first time I ever step foot inside one of his team parties. The thought alone sends a nervous, fluttery wave tumbling through my stomach.

The party starts at ten o'clock, which gives us exactly forty-five minutes to get ready.

The second we leave the arena, Lia drags me straight to her dorm room, talking a mile a minute. "I can't believe we got invited! Do you realize how hard it is to get into the hockey house? Girls literally pay frat guys just to get on the door list!"

"Lia, calm down," I laugh, sitting on the edge of her unmade bed as she frantically digs through her closet. "We don't need to overcomplicate this. I'm literally just going in my jeans and a sweater."

Lia snaps her head around, giving me a look of horror. "Rhea, if you wear a grandma sweater to a Division I victory party, I will personally revoke our friendship. That is an insult to the athletic department."

I snicker, not taking her seriously at all.

Without warning, Lia pulls a tiny dark piece of fabric from her closet and chucks it straight at my head. The soft material hits me square in the face.

"Put that on," she commands, stripping off her own top to change.

I pull the fabric off my face, unfolding it. It’s a fitted, rib-knit black crop top with a plunging, wide V-neckline and sheer mesh bell sleeves. It looks tiny...like something that barely covers the essentials.

"Lia... this is a bit..." I hesitate, staring down at the low cut.

"It looks amazing on you, now put it on!" she yells over her shoulder, stepping into a leather skirt.

I let out a defeated sigh, walking over to her full-length mirror and pulling off my oversized pullover. I slide the black top over my head and pull my dark jeans up over my hips.

I look up at the mirror and bite my lower lip.

I have never worn something this revealing in my entire life. The thin knit fabric hugs every curve of my waist like a second skin, pushing my breasts up and framing my collarbones in a dangerously temptative way.

My stomach is exposed, showing off the smooth pale skin of my torso. It feels scandalous, provocative, and shameless.

Oh, f**k it, I think, running my fingers through my long hair and letting it fall wildly over my shoulders. It's just a college party.

~

The hockey team house looks like a war zone from the outside.

Bass notes thump so hard against the glass windows that the front porch steps are literally vibrating under my shoes. Red cup trash litters the lawn, yellow patio lights illuminate the crowded yard, and no one is going to yell at them for noise complaints because half the campus security guard team are huge fans of the team anyway.

There are people everywhere...hundreds of students packed onto the porch and squeezed inside the front hallway.

As we push through the front door, my eyes scan the chaotic crowd. I spot Tiffany Chen, from my Media Ethics class, standing near the stairs, casually sharing a red cup and laughing with Logan Pierce. Ooo, look at Tiffany.

Further down the hall, I see Kiera from my communications lab dancing near the couch. I swear the team must have texted every single girl on campus, because the ratio in here is ridiculous.

Lia grabs my wrist, pulling me deeper into the pulsing crowd. The speakers overhead are blasting an aggressive, loud rap remix, the bass vibrating straight through my ribs.

A few of the hockey guys standing by the dining room table notice us walking past. Jaxon Hayes and Dylan Brooks wave their cups in the air, grinning wide.

"Davis! Jacobs!" Jaxon shouts over the music, mouthing, "You guys look hot as f**k!"

Lia laughs and mouths, "Thank you!" as she drags me toward the kitchen area to find drinks.

The kitchen is an absolute sauna—packed shoulder-to-shoulder with sweating body heat, smelling like spilled beer, citrus vodka, and sweet vape smoke.

"I'm getting us jungle juice!" Lia screams into my ear, squeezing through two frat guys toward a giant plastic cooler sitting on the kitchen island.

I stand near the edge of the granite counter, wrapping my arms around my exposed stomach, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of how little fabric I'm wearing. I shift awkwardly on my feet, looking around the noisy room.

"Well, damn. Look who actually made it."

A familiar, deep voice purrs from behind my left ear.

I freeze, a shockwave running down my spine. I turn around slowly.

Carter is leaning against the counter just two feet away, holding a red cup in his hand. He’s wearing a fitted charcoal t-shirt that stretches tight across his chest, his dark brown hair messy and windblown from the party heat.

His eyes dip down, taking in my appearance—my exposed waist, the deep V-neck, the sheer mesh sleeves, down to my tight jeans, before slowly dragging back up to my face.

His eyes widen by a fraction of an inch, a look of stunned surprise flashing across his sharp features. His throat bobbles as he swallows hard, his gaze darkening into something raw, heavy, and something I am afraid to name.