Claimed by My Roommate's Hockey Twin

Three hours before Westbrook’s biggest game of the season, I was taping sticks like a woman calmly preparing evidence for a future crime scene. Around me, the Westbrook Wolves were in full pregame collapse, which they insisted on calling focus. Skates scraped across rubber mats, gloves thudded into stalls, and someone near the showers yelled that his compression shorts had been stolen, although experience told me he had either worn them already or placed them somewhere insane, like inside a helmet. The air smelled of sweat, disinfectant, cold metal, and stick wax, which meant the equipment room was functioning as intended. I sat at my workbench with black tape in one hand and Jace Harrow’s stick in the other, wrapping the blade with clean pressure from heel to toe. I had done it so often my fingers barely needed permission from my brain anymore. Tape, pull, flatten, overlap, smooth, wax. Repeat until the team looked battle-ready and I looked forgettable. Forgettable was the goal. My name was Everly Hayes, and I had survived two and a half years at Westbrook University by becoming the kind of girl people remembered only when something was missing. A skate screw. A mouthguard. A jersey. Their common sense. I preferred it that way. When a room turned toward you, it usually wanted something to bite. The Wolves moved around me without truly seeing me, which was not an insult. It was engineering. Oversized navy hoodie, old jeans, hair in a low ponytail, no lingering eye contact, no unnecessary opinions, and I was efficient, useful, and quiet, the holy trinity of being left alone. I catalogued the players the way other people checked weather reports. Miles Carter was nervous drizzle, always convinced his gear had absorbed bad energy; Nolan Pierce was humid chaos in one skate and no shirt; Jace was bright wind until someone gave him caffeine; and Parker Wells was pressure drop, the kind of guy who said “I’m fine” right before needing ice, tape, and an adult. Cole Bishop was the storm I had spent all season learning not to watch. He was Westbrook’s captain, which on campus meant half athlete, half myth, and entirely too used to rooms adjusting around him. Six foot three, dark hair, blue eyes, and the kind of jawline that made people forgive arrogance before it finished speaking. He did not move through the locker room loudly. He did not need to. Cole had the irritating gift of control, the kind that made even silence seem like leadership. Naturally, I avoided him with religious discipline. Our relationship was practical. He broke things. I fixed them. Occasionally he said thanks, and occasionally I nodded like I had not noticed that his voice could ruin my concentration if I let it. It worked because he did not really see me. To Cole Bishop, I was part of the room’s operating system: light switches, tape rolls, Everly. Then his voice cut through the hallway outside. “I said I’m not discussing it before the game.” The locker room dipped into a strange half-quiet, the kind men created when pretending very hard not to listen. I kept my eyes on the blade, but my hands slowed. Another voice answered, sharper and older. Grant Vale, Cole’s agent. I had only seen him twice, both times in suits that looked expensive enough to have opinions. “You don’t get to ignore this. Scouts are watching tonight. If you want the offer protected, you smile, you answer questions, and you stop acting like loyalty to Westbrook is a personality.” Cole’s reply came after a pause. “My loyalty is the reason they’re watching.” “No, Cole. Your numbers are the reason they’re watching. Don’t confuse performance with sentiment.” The words landed hard enough that even Nolan stopped flirting. Cole entered a moment later, his captain face already in place. That was what unsettled me most. He stepped into the equipment room as if he had not just been cut open in the hallway. Calm shoulders. Cool expression. Mouth set, not tight. He crossed to the stick rack, took one of his game sticks, then reached over my bench for a roll of tape without asking. Normally that would have earned him a look. Today, I let it pass because I had heard enough to understand that his hand was not steady because of me. He sat at the end of the bench and began taping his blade badly. The first wrap angled too high near the toe. He ripped it off before anyone noticed. Anyone except me, because noticing was my unpaid second job. He started again, pulled too hard, and the tape twisted around the heel in an ugly ridge. His jaw flexed once. Then his right hand shook, only for a second and only enough to betray him. The room kept moving, unaware that their golden captain was losing a private fight against adhesive. Cole stared at the ruined tape with the expression of a man who would rather be checked through glass than seen failing at something small. I put down Jace’s stick, reached across the bench, and took Cole’s from him. His fingers tightened for half a breath before letting go. I stripped the tape clean and started over without looking at his face. Heel anchored, blade angled, pressure even, overlap tight. My fingers moved quickly, smoothing every line, finishing with wax, then rubbing the blade with my palm to seal it. The whole repair took less than a minute, but something about the silence around us stretched it thin. When I handed the stick back, our fingers brushed. Cole looked down at our hands, then up at me, and for one alarming second the operating system became a person. “Thanks,” he said quietly. I shrugged because speech seemed ambitious. Jace saved me by yelling, “Everly, have you seen my left elbow pad?” “You’re holding it.” He looked at his hand. “Right. Good talk.” The room broke back into noise and Cole looked away. I returned to my bench, pulse irritatingly present and reminded myself that storms were safest when viewed from underground. By puck drop, the arena had turned feral. Across the ice, Northlake warmed up in red, all smug lines and rich-boy confidence. This game mattered for rankings, scouts, conference pride, and every campus argument that would happen until spring if we lost. I worked the bench with my usual rhythm, passing towels, checking spare sticks, refilling bottles, and pretending I did not feel the night pressing down. For the first period, Cole looked untouchable. He scored seven minutes in, slipping through Northlake’s defense like he had read their bodies before they moved. The arena erupted, Coach Reynolds shouted something that sounded mostly like thunder, and the Wolves played like the night belonged to them. Then the game turned, not slowly and not naturally. Northlake started anticipating us. On the first power play, they cut off the slot pass before Miles even released it. On the second, they collapsed on Cole early, forcing him wide and killing the setup before it breathed. By the third, Coach Reynolds had stopped yelling plays and started staring at the opposite bench with a stillness that made my stomach knot. Something was wrong. Our power-play sheet was private. Coach finalized it that afternoon. I printed the copies, sorted them, and locked the master sheet inside my bench binder. The only people who should have seen it were staff and the first unit. During the second intermission, Parker came off the ice pale beneath his flush and shoved his phone toward Coach. “They posted it,” he said. “Northlake’s blog posted our power play.” I leaned just enough to see the headline. WESTBROOK’S POWER PLAY TELLS: HOW NORTHLAKE CAN SHUT DOWN BISHOP TONIGHT. Beneath it was a blurred photo of a printed sheet. Our sheet. My sheet. For one impossible moment, the arena lights seemed too bright. Coach turned toward my station. His eyes dropped to the binder under my bench, then lifted toward me. Before he said anything, before anyone said my name, I felt another stare cut across the ice. Cole was at the boards, helmet pushed up, breathing hard, and his eyes had found me through players, glass, noise, and distance. This time, he did not look through me. He looked at me. No, worse. He saw me. The third period was a slow execution. Northlake read every formation, closed every lane, and made Westbrook look predictable. Cole fought like fury could rewrite strategy, but even he could not outskate a plan already handed to the enemy. We lost by one goal, and when the buzzer sounded, the student section fell into the kind of silence that made blame easier to hear. The team stormed off the ice. I gathered bottles and tape because routine was the only thing keeping my hands steady. In the tunnel, skates scraped against rubber, sticks slammed walls, and someone swore loud enough for the scouts to hear. I tucked the binder against my chest and moved toward the equipment room. A hand closed around my arm. Cole stood in front of me, helmet off, hair damp, blue eyes furious in the fluorescent light. His grip was firm, not painful, but every nerve in my body reacted like a siren. Behind the anger, I saw something else. Fear. He moved closer, his voice low and furious as he spoke, “You’re the only one who had access to that sheet. We need to talk now.”