Playing Dirty

Chapter 4: The Penalty Box

Exactly forty-five minutes later, the alarm on Maya’s phone vibrated against the cold metal of the bleachers.

She silenced it, closed her laptop, and descended the concrete stairs back into the bowels of the ice arena. Her mind was razor-sharp, her earlier flush completely replaced by a cold, calculating determination. Liam Vance had drawn first blood by invading her personal space and preying on her physical reactions. It was time to remind him that in the game of psychological warfare, law students were apex predators.

Maya pushed open the door to the Varsity Lounge.

Liam was exactly where she had left him. He was slouched on the leather sofa, his long legs stretched out over the coffee table. The massive Macroeconomics textbook was closed, currently serving as a highly expensive coaster for his half-empty protein shake. Liam was tapping away on his phone, looking entirely unbothered by the fact that his academic execution was looming.

"Time is up," Maya announced, her voice cutting through the quiet room like a whip.

Liam glanced up, locking his phone and tossing it onto the sofa. "Welcome back, Counselor. I was starting to miss the sound of you grinding your teeth."

Maya walked over to the table and looked at the blank notepad she had left him. "Where are the ten equations?"

"Didn't do them," Liam said smoothly, running a hand through his damp hair. "I read the first page. It was incredibly boring. I figured we could just negotiate a compromise instead. You do the worksheets, I sign them, and in exchange, I won't tell the Dean that you abandoned your tutoring post to go pout in the bleachers."

Maya stared at him. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of the man was almost impressive.

"I don't negotiate with terrorists, Vance," she said coldly.

Liam chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound that did entirely too many things to her pulse. He pushed himself off the sofa, grabbing a towel from his gym bag. "I’m going to hit the showers down the hall before the hot water runs out. When I get back, we can talk about how you're going to help me pass this class without me actually having to read that brick of a book."

Before Maya could protest, Liam sauntered out of the lounge, leaving the heavy door propped slightly ajar.

Maya stood in the center of the room, her blood boiling. He wasn't just disrespecting her time; he was mocking her authority. She glanced around the room, her eyes landing on the massive black duffel bag Liam had left slouched open on the floor.

Protruding from the side pocket was a thick, worn leather binder.

Maya paused. She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. Embossed on the spine in faded gold lettering were the words: Westridge Wildcats - Captain's Playbook.

It was the holy grail of a collegiate hockey team. Inside that binder were the offensive strategies, defensive formations, secret plays, and encrypted signals that the coach and captain had spent months developing for the upcoming championship season. If a rival team got their hands on it, Westridge’s season was effectively over. It was Liam's most prized possession.

A slow, wicked smile spread across Maya’s lips. It was a smile that had terrified opposing counsel in mock trial tournaments for three years running.

Without a second thought, she reached into the bag and pulled the heavy leather binder out, sliding it seamlessly into her sleek leather briefcase.

Then, Maya walked over to the lounge door. She peeked out into the hallway. The corridor was empty, the sound of running water echoing faintly from the communal showers down the hall.

Maya pulled the heavy door shut. With a satisfying, metallic clack, she flipped the deadbolt from the inside.

She walked back to the table, sat down in Liam’s vacated chair, opened her laptop, and waited.

Ten minutes later, heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor. The door handle rattled.

Then, it rattled harder.

"Maya," Liam’s muffled voice came through the thick wood. "Open the door."

Maya didn't answer. She calmly typed a sentence into her mock trial brief.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

A heavy fist slammed against the door, the sheer force of it rattling the hinges. "Maya, I know you're in there. Cut the s**t and unlock the door."

Maya stood up gracefully. She walked over to the door, which featured a narrow, reinforced glass window at eye level. She peered through.

Liam was standing in the hallway, glaring at the door. He had showered, changing into a pair of gray sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his hips and a fitted white t-shirt. His wet hair was slicked back, and his jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter.

When he saw Maya’s face appear in the window, his blue eyes flared with a lethal combination of shock and absolute fury.

"Unlock it," Liam ordered, pointing a large finger at the glass.

Maya smiled sweetly. She reached down into her briefcase, pulled out the heavy leather hockey playbook, and slowly brought it up to the glass window so the gold lettering was perfectly legible.

Liam’s expression instantly dropped. The color drained from his face for a fraction of a second before a dark, thunderous rage violently replaced it. He slammed both hands flat against the glass, looming over her from the other side, looking like a caged predator ready to tear the door off its hinges.

"Maya," Liam roared, his voice muffled but terrifyingly deep. "If you open that book, I swear to God—"

Maya casually flipped the playbook open to the first page, pretending to inspect a highly confidential offensive diagram. She tapped her chin in mock fascination, shaking her head.

Through the glass, Liam was practically vibrating with fury. His chest heaved, his eyes burning into hers with a possessive, aggressive intensity that sent a wild, forbidden thrill shooting straight to Maya’s core.

She wasn't afraid of him. She was intoxicated. The power dynamic had violently shifted, and she held the crown.

Maya grabbed a black marker and a piece of printer paper from the table. She quickly scribbled something down, then slapped the paper against the glass window, right over Liam’s face.

The paper read: EQUATION 1: PRICE ELASTICITY OF DEMAND. SOLVE IT.

Liam stared at the paper, then moved his head to the side to glare fiercely at her through the uncovered portion of the glass.

Maya held up the playbook, then held up a lighter she had found on the coffee table, raising an elegant eyebrow. It was an empty threat—she would never destroy property—but Liam’s eyes widened anyway.

"You're a psycho," Liam mouthed through the glass, his breath fogging the pane.

Maya smiled, tapping the paper against the glass.

Liam squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a heavy, frustrated breath that fogged the glass even further. He pulled a pen from his sweatpants pocket, grabbed a crumpled receipt from his wallet, and pressed it against the door frame. With furious, aggressive strokes, he scrawled out a math equation.

He slapped the receipt against the glass.

Maya leaned in to inspect it. It was flawless. The formula, the variables, the final answer—all perfectly calculated.

She looked up at him. Beneath the blinding rage, she saw the sharp, undeniable intelligence he had been hiding behind his arrogant jock persona. Liam Vance wasn't stupid. He was just stubborn.

Maya unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

Liam immediately stormed inside, using his massive body to back her up against the table. He snatched the playbook out of her hands with lightning speed, tossing it onto the sofa before turning his full, predatory attention back to her.

He planted his hands on the table on either side of her hips, trapping her exactly as he had in the Dean's hallway. Only this time, the tension wasn't just hostile. It was suffocatingly hot.

"You play dirty, Counselor," Liam breathed, his chest brushing against hers as he looked down into her eyes. The scent of clean soap and pure adrenaline washed over her.

Maya didn’t back away. She placed her hands flat on his solid chest, feeling the heavy, rapid thumping of his heart beneath her palms.

"I don't play, Vance," Maya whispered, her voice dropping into a husky register that betrayed the sudden, aching throb reawakening between her thighs. "I win. Now sit down and do equation number two."