Claimed By My Hockey Captain

Chapter 5

Grace

The handle was just @mh_19, and the profile picture was the standard Stormont University mountain logo.

I sat in the corner booth of the diner, my phone plugged into the dying power bank, tapping into his profile for the third time like a fourth pass might reveal the hidden catch.

His bio was sparse—just Kinesiology and a link to the university athletics page. He barely posted anything. There was a shot of the Vancouver seawall on a rare gray day, and a high-contrast silhouette from last season's playoffs—him captured mid-stride on the ice in full hockey gear, helmet on, looking massive against the bright stadium lights, his face completely obscured by the cage of his visor. No names, no captions trying too hard.

He looked like a normal student-athlete, not a scam bot.

I looked from the screen to the heavy canvas of my duffel bag, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. A guy this normal renting out a room for five hundred dollars a month, utilities included, in a city where a parking space cost half that—it wasn't reassuring. It felt risky.

But looking at the fading light outside the diner window, I knew what the alternative was. If I replied, if I took the chance on a complete stranger, it meant I actually had a roof over my head tonight.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Where is the place located? I typed back, keeping it as clinical as possible. And what's the catch?

The three dots appeared almost instantly.

No catch, the reply came. It's Townhouse 19, right behind the Stormont ice rink. Ten-minute walk to the main quad. I don't need the money, I just want someone quiet who won't leave a mess. The room is ready whenever. When can you get here?

Everything in me wanted to type right now and hit send. It was the lifeline I'd been praying for, handed to me on a silver platter. But as desperate as I was, I wasn't stupid. A random guy offering a dirt-cheap room on i********: at night was how true crime podcasts started.

I needed a roof over my head, but I also needed to make sure I'd survive the night to enjoy it.

Before my survival instinct could talk me out of the lease entirely, I called Olivia. If I was walking into a trap, I was at least bringing backup.

"Hey." She answered on the second ring, the background noise of the student union building humming through the line. "Please tell me you're calling because you're finally going to confirm your enrollment, and not because you're hiding from your mom again."

"I did the opposite of hiding. I walked out," I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Liv, I need a massive favor. Someone just offered me a room near the rink for five hundred a month, all in. Can you meet me there? I don't trust my own judgment right now, and I need a second pair of eyes to make sure I'm not walking into a trap."

There was a pause on the other end, long enough for me to hear her stop walking. "Five hundred? In Vancouver? Grace, that's not a typo's worth of wrong. That's a 'body in the basement' amount of wrong."

"I know. That's why I'm asking."

"Where are you right now?" Olivia asked, the rustle of her jacket coming through the line as she immediately shifted into protective mode.

"The diner on Fourth," I said, my voice sounding smaller than I wanted it to. "Two blocks from campus."

"Stay right there. Give me ten minutes," she said without a single second of hesitation. "I'm coming to get you."

"Okay. Thank you."

I hung up, the tight knot of panic in my chest loosening just a fraction. I pulled up my messages again and stared at the gray bubble from @mh_19. I wasn't going to show up completely unannounced, and with Olivia coming, I actually had the nerve to take the leap.

I typed a quick reply.

I can head over now. A friend is walking with me. Is that fine?

The reply came back a minute later. Fine.

That was it. No emoji. No follow-up. Just one word.

I threw down a few crumpled bills for the coffee, and hauled my heavy duffel bag out to the curb, stepping into the cool, crisp Vancouver night.

Olivia beat her ten-minute estimate by two. Her compact car pulled up to the diner's entrance with a sharp screech of brakes, and the passenger side door popped open before I could even lift my bag.

"Get in," she said.

I tossed my duffel into the back seat and climbed in. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." Olivia shifted into drive, pulling back into the quiet street. "Where are we going?"

"Townhouse 19, " I said, opening the chat on my phone. "In the complex right behind the Stormont ice rink."

Olivia made a soft humming sound, her eyes tracking the road as she headed toward the Stormont University District.

"Are you kidding me? That complex is way too nice, Grace. Which is somehow worse. If it was a dump, I'd at least understand the price. How the hell is there a five-hundred-dollar, utilities-included room over there?"

"Maybe he's just bad at math."

"Nobody who owns a place on this street is bad at math." She made a sharp turn at the intersection, her eyes scanning the house numbers. "Okay. Tell me again what you actually know about this guy."

"His handle is mh_19," I said, leaning my head back against the headrest. "He's on Stormont's hockey team. Kinesiology major. That's about it."

"That's it?" Olivia shot me a look from the driver's seat, her eyebrows shooting up. "No face? No real name?"

"No real name. Just a sports silhouette."

"Cool, cool, a very thorough vetting process." She sighed, slowing the car down as we entered the complex right behind the ice rink. "Look, I'm not trying to freak you out. I just spend a lot of my time around guys on campus who think the rules don't apply to them because they're big enough to ignore the consequences. I just want you walking in there with your eyes open, that's all."

"My eyes are open," I muttered, my heart starting to do a nervous little dance against my ribs as the car finally idled in front of Townhouse 19.

"Are they, though." She slowed, glancing sideways at me with the particular look she reserved for moments she thought I was about to talk myself into something against my own better judgment—which, fair, given recent history. "Because I know you, and you've had kind of a brutal six months, and a guy offering you a cheap room and zero questions asked is exactly the kind of thing that's going to look like a lifeline whether or not it actually is one."

"It's a room, Olivia. Not a marriage proposal."

"I'm just saying."

We turned up the front walk. The townhouse was nicer up close than it had looked from the street—clean lines, a garage door painted the same charcoal as the trim, a small covered porch with exactly the kind of unfussy, expensive-looking simplicity that made me feel underdressed in my own clothes.

Olivia raised her eyebrows at me. I raised mine back, because there wasn't really a response to this doesn't look like a five-hundred-dollar building that didn't sound exactly like what we were both already thinking.

"Okay," she said, low, as I reached for the doorbell. "Last chance to bail before I have to actually meet this person and form opinions."

"You already have opinions."

"I have preliminary opinions. I reserve the right to revise."

I pressed the bell. Somewhere inside, a low, ordinary chime sounded, and for one suspended second I stood there running through every version of this person I'd half-built in my head from a handful of photos and one suspiciously generous text message.

Footsteps. The deadbolt turning.

The door opened, and I had already started arranging my face into the polite, neutral expression I used for landlords and professors and anyone else I needed to seem competent in front of—and then I actually looked at him, and the expression cracked straight down the middle and fell apart before I could stop it.

Because I knew that face.

Not from campus. Not from television.

From one impossible night six months ago.

My stomach dropped straight through the porch floor.