My Hockey Hearthrob

The Flood

I did not agree to move in with Cole Maddox.

I agreed to tacos.

That's what I kept telling myself at 11:47 p.m. while I stood in my apartment doorway, ankle-deep in brown water, holding a wet box of my journalism awards, watching water pour from my ceiling like a shitty indoor waterfall.

"How?" I whispered to my landlord, Mr. Henderson, who was standing in the hall in his bathrobe, eating cereal like this was normal.

"Pipe burst upstairs," he said, milk dribbling down his chin. "Whole building flooded. Gonna be three weeks before it's dry. Maybe four. You got insurance?"

I had $217 in my checking account. Did I have insurance? No. I had a half-eaten granola bar and a fake boyfriend with 2.1 million followers.

My phone had been buzzing nonstop since Cole's post. 14,000 new followers. 300 DMs, half calling me a clout-chaser, half calling me mommy in a way that made me want to delete the internet. And one voicemail from Diane that just said "YOU'RE A GENIUS. STAY WITH HIM. I DON'T CARE IF YOU HAVE TO SLEEP WITH HIM. ACTUALLY, PLEASE DO, FOR VIEWS."

And then one text that made my stomach drop: Unknown: Your apartment building is on the Frost Wolves housing list. Want me to send someone? - J

How did Jax know? How did he always know?

I was about to text back I'm fine when another text came through, from Cole: Where are you? You missed curfew, Goldilocks. Fake girlfriends have a 10pm curfew.

I sent him my address and a photo of my ceiling waterfall with the caption: Curfew's gonna be hard when I'm homeless.

Three dots. Then: Stay there.

Twenty minutes later, a black truck screeched to a halt outside my building — a truck I recognized because I'd seen it in Jax's driveway five years ago, except this one was newer, angrier, with a STEEL HAWKS sticker on the back.

Cole got out in sweats and a backward cap, no shirt under his hoodie, tattoos stark in the streetlight. He took one look at me — soaking wet, mascara running, holding a soggy cardboard box — and said, "Jesus Christ."

"Hi to you too."

He pushed past me into the apartment, assessed the damage in two seconds like a general. "Grab what matters. Clothes, laptop, that weird emotional support notebook. Go."

"I can't just leave—"

"You can. Henderson, you got this?" he called to my landlord.

Mr. Henderson saluted with his cereal spoon. "Got it, Mr. Maddox! Big fan! Love when you punched that guy!"

Cole ignored him, grabbed my biggest duffel from my closet — which was already half underwater — and started shoving clothes in. "Do you own anything that isn't black or sad?"

"I like black!"

"You like black because you think it makes you look serious so the boys' club will take you seriously. You need color. We're buying you color tomorrow."

"We're not buying anything. And I'm not moving in with you. I never agreed to that."

"You're not moving in with me," he said, zipping the duffel with one hand. "You're... temporarily cohabitating for PR purposes. My place is huge. Three bedrooms. One is a gym, one is where I keep my ego, and one is empty. You can have the empty one. Rent free. In exchange, you do dishes and you don't steal my hoodies. Or do, I don't care, it looks good for photos."

I stared. "Why do you have three bedrooms?"

"Because I was lonely and my agent said buying a big house makes me look mature. I'm not mature. I'm 26 and I eat cereal for dinner. But I have space."

He picked up my duffel and my box and my laptop and somehow still had a hand free to grab my elbow and steer me out of the water. Mr. Henderson waved goodbye.

Outside, the truck was running, heat blasting. Cole threw everything in the back and opened the passenger door for me. I hesitated.

"Goldilocks," he said, softer now. "You have no place to go. Your ex's team owns your building, so if you call Jax, you move into his orbit. You want that? To owe him? Or do you want to owe me, where it's just business?"

He was right. God, he was annoyingly right.

I got in.

His house — well, mansion — was twenty minutes outside the city, down a private road that ended in trees and a huge, modern, glass-and-black-wood house that looked like a villain lived there.

"Welcome to Casa Maddox," he said, punching a code. "Don't mind the mess. I cleaned last... never."

It wasn't messy. It was stark. Too clean, too empty. A huge couch with no blankets. A kitchen with a fridge that only had protein shakes, beer, and ketchup. No photos on the walls.

"Where's... everything?" I asked.

"I move a lot. Didn't want to get attached." He dropped my bags in a hallway. "Your room's here."

The guest room was actually beautiful. Big bed with white sheets, a window looking out at pine trees, an actual closet. No mold. No waterfall.

I sat on the edge of the bed, and suddenly, everything hit me — the article, Jax, the tryout, the viral photo, the flood — and my eyes burned.

"Hey. No. No crying," Cole said, panicking a little. "Fake girlfriends don't cry. They... glow. Or something. My PR lady said."

"I don't have PR," I whispered, laughing wetly. "I'm going to get fired and I'm homeless and your rival who I used to love has my prom photo in his locker and I kissed you — well, you kissed me — on the forehead and now 14,000 people think I'm a slut —"

"Who called you a slut?" His voice went low, dangerous. That enforcer voice.

"Everyone!"

He crouched down so we were eye level. His hands hovered, not touching, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed. "Listen to me. You are not homeless. You live here now. You are not getting fired, because tomorrow you're going to walk into that rink with me holding your hand and every outlet in the country will want to interview you. And no one gets to call you a slut while I'm around. Okay?"

"Why are you being nice to me?" I whispered.

"Because you look like a kicked puppy and I have a weakness for kicked puppies." He stood up. "And because my PR lady said if I'm nice, Taylor Swift might write a song about me."

Despite myself, I laughed. A real laugh.

"Good. There's the girl who told Jax Carter his memory was like a goldfish's." He grabbed a hoodie from his closet — black, STEEL HAWKS, soft — and tossed it to me. "Put that on. Your shirt's wet. I'm going to make us tacos and you're going to tell me what Jax texted you that made you look like you saw a ghost."

I changed in the bathroom, into his hoodie that smelled like him — mint and cold and boy — and it fell to my knees. When I came out, he was in the kitchen, actually making tacos, hair still in that backward cap.

He slid a plate to me. "Rule seven, which I just made up: no secrets from your fake boyfriend. What did Jax say?"

I showed him the text: You okay? - J

Cole read it, his jaw tightened. "He has your number."

"He's had my number since we were 17."

"And he texts you now? After five years? After he told you he didn't want you here?" He set his plate down hard. "What did you say back?"

"Nothing. I haven't answered."

"Good. Don't. Let him worry." He took a bite of taco, then added, more quietly, "He came to find you tonight, you know. After our photo. He was going to come to your building. I told him I had it covered."

My head snapped up. "You talked to Jax?"

"He called me. Told me to stay away from you. Used his captain voice. Very scary." Cole's smile was sharp. "I told him you're a big girl. And that you're my girlfriend now."

"We're not —"

"We are for the next four weeks. Sign here." He pushed another crumpled paper toward me. A real contract this time. One page, printed.

FAKE DATING AGREEMENT

Duration: 4 weeks or until playoffs end, whichever comes first.

1. Public displays of affection mandatory for photos.

2. No real dating other people.

3. Live together for duration (PR optics).

4. Ella gets exclusive access to both teams + Cole's i********:.

5. Cole gets image rehabilitation + not traded to Winnipeg.

6. No feelings. (Seriously.)

I stared at it. "This is legally binding?"

"No. I wrote it in Notes and printed it at CVS. But it feels official, right?"

I picked up a pen from his counter. My hand hovered over the signature line.

Four weeks. One room. Two rivals. One story that could make my career.

On my phone, another buzz. Jax again: Cole told me you're at his. Ella, you don't know him. Call me.

I signed.

Cole watched me, his eyes dark. "Welcome home, Goldilocks."

He held out his taco for a cheers. I clinked mine against his.

Outside, pine trees swayed. Inside, I was in my fake boyfriend's hoodie, in his guest room, about to become the most talked-about girl in hockey.

And somewhere across town, Jax Carter was staring at his phone, waiting for a call that would never come.