Forced To Room With My Hockey Rival

FOUR

George’s POV

The car was unexpectedly quiet. I had expected Quince and her long-term friend, whom she hadn’t seen in a while, to engage in a bunch of discussion, but it seemed like it was quite the opposite. My hands rested loosely on the steering wheel while I focused on the road ahead. But my attention kept drifting back to our new visitor, Moxie.

I noticed the moment Quince tried to touch her shoulder, Moxie jerked away like she’d been burned.

It didn’t look like anger; instead, it looked like pure fear. I kept my eyes on the road, pretending not to notice, but the image stayed in my mind.

I exhaled slowly. This weekend was not supposed to go like this. A few hours earlier, I had been at the villa finishing company matters. It had been a normal evening, but then the door burst open.

“George!” Quince rushed in like a hurricane. That alone made me look up. Quince rarely asked for help with anything. She preferred doing things herself, loudly and dramatically if necessary. But tonight she looked different.

Her hair was messy, her breathing uneven, and her phone was clutched tightly in her hand. “I need your help,” she said.

“With what?” I asked.

“Rescuing my best friend.”

I leaned back slightly in my chair. “From what?” I asked, raising my brows.

Her expression hardened immediately. “Her boyfriend.” She hissed. That was the moment I realized she wasn’t exaggerating. During the drive, Quince explained everything she knew. Her best friend had lost her parents in a car accident. After that, her uncle took over the family company and the inheritance. The girl had nowhere left to go. So she moved in with her boyfriend. And that boyfriend turned out to be abusive.

Quince spoke quickly, anger bubbling in every sentence.

I listened quietly while driving. Normally, I wouldn’t involve myself in something so personal between strangers. But the story bothered me more than I expected. Losing family… I understood how deeply that could shake a person’s life.

By the time we reached the apartment, I had already decided that if the situation turned violent, I would step in. But I still expected to meet someone I had never seen before. Maybe a timid girl hiding behind the door.

Instead, the moment the apartment door opened, and she stepped outside, I nearly laughed out loud from disbelief. Because I knew her, even in the dim streetlight, I could recognize her easily.

Moxie.

For a second, I genuinely wondered if I was imagining things. But the more I looked, the more certain I became. It was definitely her. The same sharp eyes and the same stubborn expression. Although now her hair was messy, and faint bruises marked her face.

She looked smaller than I remembered and far more exhausted. Quince dragged her toward the car while explaining that I was her stepbrother. The shock on Moxie’s face was almost comical. Apparently, she recognized me, too.

Now she sat behind me in silence, clearly trying to avoid even looking in my direction. After a few minutes, her eyes slowly closed. She had fallen asleep.

I glanced at her briefly from the corner of my eye. My grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly.

So the story Quince told me was real. Someone had done that to her.

My mind drifted back to the last time I saw her. It was at the state hockey tournament. At the time, she had caught my attention almost immediately, not because of her appearance, but because of how she played. Most players in high school tournaments were good. But Moxie played like someone with something to prove and something to lose.

When the match started, she was relentless, fast, and aggressive. Every time my team tried to advance, she was there intercepting or pressuring the puck. At one point, we slammed into the boards, fighting for possession. She didn’t hesitate for even a second.

It was reckless but impressive. She was a risk-taker. I remember thinking she was foolishly stubborn and oddly admirable. Near the end of the game, her team was trailing by one point.

The arena was roaring. She had possession of the puck while I closed in to block her path. Instead of backing down, she attempted a dangerous pass. She launched the puck just before we collided. Her skates lost balance, and she fell hard onto the ice.

But the pass nearly worked. If I hadn’t intercepted it, her teammate might have scored. Instead, the puck landed perfectly in my reach.

Seconds later, the buzzer sounded. My team had won.

Everyone rushed onto the rink, celebrating, but I skated toward her. She was still lying on the ice, catching her breath. I stopped beside her.

“Looks like we won,” I said with a smile. It wasn’t meant to be cruel—just a simple acknowledgment of the match. But my teammates arrived moments later.

They were loud, excited, and far less thoughtful.

Some of them started mocking the opposing team.

I remember feeling irritated by that. The game had been too hard fought for cheap jokes. So I waved them away and followed them off the rink.

The next time I saw her was at the awards ceremony. That encounter went badly. I was walking near the stage when someone bumped into me from behind. My foot accidentally caught hers, and she stumbled.

Instinctively, I reached out to steady her, but before I could even speak, she shoved me.

I stumbled back in surprise. The crowd immediately started whispering, and people muttered that she was a sore loser. At the time, I believed them. Her reaction seemed irrational. The respect I had developed during the tournament faded after that moment.

I didn't think about her at all until tonight.

Now, watching her sleeping quietly behind me with visible injuries on her face… The memory looked different. That shove hadn’t been anger; it had been a panic reflex. Probably the same kind of reflex that made her pull away from Quince’s touch earlier.

I glanced at her again. Her head had tilted slightly toward the window. Strands of hair covered part of her face. Her breathing was slow and steady now. She looked… peaceful. I gritted my teeth, wondering who could be so cruel to hurt a girl this way.