The Boy Who Checked Me First

Chapter 2: House Rules

The men's athlete housing complex is not made for girls.

I realized that at exactly 8:03 p.m. when I dragged my two hockey bags, my duffel, and my very dead houseplant up to Building C, Apartment 4B, and found Cole Maddox standing in the doorway shirtless, eating a protein bar like he owned the entire world.

He was not happy to see me.

He had changed out of his practice sweats into black gym shorts. His hair was still damp. That tattoo everyone talks about - the small Wolverines logo on his ribs with 77 under it - was right there. Along with a lot of other muscle that I was NOT looking at.

"You're late," he said.

"I'm three minutes late," I said, dropping my bags. My ribs screamed again. I had iced them in my car but it didn't help. There was definitely a bruise forming. Maybe more.

He stared at my plant.

"What is that?"

"Fernando. He has anxiety. Be nice to him."

Cole looked at me, at Fernando, back at me, like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him here.

"House rules are on the fridge," he said finally, stepping aside just enough to let me in. Not gentlemanly. Barely enough space that my shoulder brushed his chest as I passed.

And I felt it. That stupid jolt. Static. Because he was warm and solid and smelled like body wash and cold air.

Get it together, Chen. This is the guy who tried to put you through the boards six hours ago.

The apartment was... not what I expected.

I expected disgusting. I expected old pizza boxes, socks on the floor, that weird hockey boy smell of tape and sweat that never leaves.

It was clean. Insanely clean. Military clean.

The kitchen was spotless, protein shakers lined up like soldiers, a whiteboard on the fridge with a meal plan written in perfect handwriting. Chicken, rice, broccoli. Repeat. The living room had one giant couch, one TV, and about fifty hockey sticks lined against the wall. No decorations except for one framed jersey - Maddox 77, Whitmore.

And then there was the spare room. My room.

It was small. Really small. Just a bed, a desk, a tiny closet, and a window that looked out onto the parking lot. But it had its own door that locked, and its own bathroom that connected to his side. Like a jack-and-jill.

"I took the main bathroom, you get the jack-and-jill," he said behind me. "You use your side. I use mine. We do not cross."

"Wow, so territorial. Do you pee on the doorframe to mark it?"

He ignored that. "Fridge list."

He pointed.

I walked to the fridge. There, taped in the middle, was a handwritten list titled HOUSE RULES - MADDIX APARTMENT - FALL SEMESTER.

No girls after 10 p.m. (This means YOUR friends too)

No loud music. Ever.

Kitchen cleaned immediately after use.

Bathroom 30 min max. Don't leave hair in drain.

Laundry - your stuff only. Don't touch mine.

Do not touch my sticks.

Do not talk to me before 5 a.m. practice. I am not a morning person.

If you quit the team, you move out that day.

At the bottom, in smaller angry writing: I AM SERIOUS.

I stared at it.

"This is the most virgin list I've ever seen," I said.

His ears turned red. "Excuse me?"

"Number one. No girls after 10 p.m.? Captain, do you think I'm running a sorority out of your spare room?"

"I think you're a distraction," he said flatly. "And I think my focus is on the NHL draft this spring. I don't need drama."

"I'm not drama. I'm literally trying to survive a flooded dorm and your god complex."

He stepped closer. That grumpy captain energy rolled off him.

"You are drama, Chen. You're five-foot-five and you walk onto my ice, MY ice, and tell me you can take a hit. You have no idea what these guys will do to you when I'm not there to check you first."

Wait. When he's not there to check me first?

"Is that supposed to be... protective?" I asked.

"It's supposed to be a warning. The second line, Eriksson and Park? They have a bet on how many practices until you cry and quit. Park says three days."

My stomach flipped. But I lifted my chin.

"And what do you say?"

His grey eyes dropped to my mouth again, then back up. Cold again.

"I say you won't make it to Friday."

He turned to go to his room, done with me. That was when I made my mistake.

I reached to lift my duffel onto the bed and a sharp, white-hot pain shot through my left side. I gasped - couldn't help it - and my hand flew to my ribs.

Cole stopped. Turned.

"What?"

"Nothing," I said too fast. "Pulled something. At practice. Your illegal hit."

"It's not illegal if the ref doesn't call it," he said automatically, but he was frowning. He took a step toward me. "Let me see."

"Nope. No. We have a rule about not touching. And no girls - wait, that's your rule. My rule is no shirtless captains giving me medical exams."

He didn't laugh. "Chen. If you're injured and you hide it, Jensen will pull you. And then this whole roommate thing is for nothing. Lift your shirt."

"Absolutely not."

"Aria."

The way he said my first name - low, serious, not princess, not Chen - made my knees weird.

"No. It's just a bruise. I'm fine."

He stared at me for three long seconds. I could see the battle in his face. Captain vs. human. The captain wanted to force me, prove I was weak. The human...

"Fine," he said finally. "But you ice it. There's a first aid kit under the sink. And if you're limping at 5 a.m., I will tell Jensen myself."

He grabbed a spare key off the counter and tossed it to me. I fumbled it.

"Lock your door if it makes you feel better," he said. "Bathroom is yours. I use the main one. Goodnight, roommate."

He went into his room and shut the door. Not slammed. Just shut. Firm.

I stood in my tiny room, listening to my heart pound.

Okay. I could do this. One month. Thirty days living with the guy who hated me most.

I started unpacking. Leggings, hoodies, textbooks I never read, my lucky skate guards. I put Fernando on the windowsill. I tried to lift my practice jersey and hissed.

In the jack-and-jill bathroom, I locked both sides and finally lifted my shirt in the mirror.

Oh.

Oh no.

A bruise the size of a hockey puck was blooming purple and black across my left ribs, right where his shoulder had driven me into the boards.

It was bad. Not broken-bad, but bad enough that breathing hurt and twisting hurt and existing hurt.

I pressed the cold faucet and splashed water on my face.

I could not tell Coach. I could not tell the trainer. If they knew I bruised this easily, they'd say "See? Girls can't take it" and I'd be done.

I dug out the first aid kit and found an ice pack. I sat on the cold bathroom tile in my sports bra and leggings, ice pack pressed to my ribs, trying not to cry.

That's when the door on his side opened.

I froze.

Cole stood there in just shorts and a towel over his shoulder, like he was about to shower. He stopped dead when he saw me.

For a second, neither of us moved.

His eyes went from my face, to my hand holding the ice pack, to the ugly purple-black bruise covering my side.

His whole expression changed. The grumpy mask dropped.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered. He stepped in before I could lock it, crouched down in front of me, and I was suddenly very aware that I was in a sports bra, bruised, on his bathroom floor, and he was shirtless and way too close.

"That was from me?" he said.

It wasn't angry. It was... quiet. Almost guilty.

"It's fine," I said, trying to cover myself. "It's just a bruise. Hockey happens."

He didn't touch me. But his hand hovered over the bruise, not quite touching, like he wanted to.

"That is not 'just a bruise,' Chen. That is a second-degree contusion. You need X-ray."

"I'm not going to the trainer. They'll cut me."

"They should cut you if you're hiding this!"

His voice rose, then he caught himself, glanced at the shared wall like someone might hear.

He stood up, grabbed another towel, wet it with cold water, and handed it to me.

"Use this, not that chemical ice pack directly. And take ibuprofen. I have some."

He turned to go, then stopped at his door.

"And for what it's worth..." He didn't look back. "I didn't mean to hit you that hard. I meant to scare you."

"Well, congratulations," I said, my voice small. "You did both."

He left, closing his door softly this time.

I sat there, cold towel on my ribs, listening to his shower turn on.

My phone buzzed. Team group chat.

PARK: yo did Chen survive the move into Maddox's dungeon??

ERIKSSON: over/under 2 days til he kills her

JAKE: leave her alone

MADDOX: She is fine. And if anyone else checks her like that without my permission, you're benched. My roommate, my problem.

My problem.

I stared at that last text, the ice melting against my skin.

I was his problem now.

And for some stupid reason, with my ribs aching and Fernando probably dying in the other room, that made me smile.