My Hockey Heartthrob: Face Off

Roommates

ule one of living with Cole Maddox: he's always shirtless.

I learned this at 6:03 a.m. on my first morning in Casa Maddox. I was woken by a rhythmic thudding. Not an alarm. Thud. Thud. Thud. Like someone was hitting a wall.

I stumbled out of my guest room — which Cole kept calling "your room" like I actually lived here — in an oversized sleep shirt and fuzzy socks, hair a mess, half-asleep, to find Cole in the hallway doing pull-ups on a bar mounted between the doorframes. Shirtless. Sweats low. Back muscles flexing. Tattoos rippling.

"Morning, Goldilocks," he said, upside down. "Sleep well? You drool."

"I do not drool!"

"You do. Cute drool. Like a baby seal." He dropped down, landing silent. Sweat on his chest. Wolf tattoo on his pec. Scar through it on his shoulder.

"Do you own shirts?"

"I own shirts. I choose not to oppress my body. It's a lifestyle." He grinned. "You're wearing my shirt."

I looked down. I was. In my sleepy haze I'd grabbed his gray hoodie from my duffel. It fell to my thighs. PROPERTY OF MADDOX on the back.

"I thought it was mine!"

"You thought my 3XL was yours? Subconscious stealing. Very common in fake girlfriends."

He threw something at my face. A Steel Hawks practice jersey. Black and red. Number 88. MADDOX.

"You need to wear this. Rule Two: look like my girlfriend."

"I can't wear this. Jax will have an aneurysm. I'm embedded with the Wolves."

"Jax doesn't own you. And it looks hot on you. I already pictured it." He leaned against the counter, shake in hand, still shirtless.

I put it on in the bathroom. It was huge, fell to mid-thigh, smelled like his detergent and cold air. I looked like a hockey girlfriend. The kind who screams his name in the box.

When I came out, Cole went quiet for three full seconds. That's a record.

"What?" I tugged the hem.

"Nothing." His voice was lower. His eyes dropped to my legs, then quickly away. "Yeah. Good. Let's go. Don't talk to my teammates. They're horny."

"You're horny."

"I'm your horny. It's contractual."

The Hawks rink was chaos compared to the Wolves. Black walls. Trap music shaking the glass. Energy drinks and yelling.

They all stopped when I walked in with Cole, his hand on my lower back. Possessive. Fake possessive, but my skin didn't get the memo.

"BOYS! This is Ella! She's mine! Don't be weird!" Cole announced.

"Yo, Ella! Is it true you made Carter cry?" a rookie yelled.

"Is it true you're living together already?" another added.

Cole squeezed my waist. "We are. Domestic bliss. She stole my hoodies and my heart. Right, babe?"

I forced a smile and leaned into him. "Right. He drools. Like a baby. And sings in the shower. Badly."

The team roared. Cole looked down, mock-offended. "She lies."

For a second it felt real. His hand. The banter. The way they looked at us like we were actually something.

Then I felt it. That prickle when someone watches you.

I turned.

At the glass divider between the two rinks stood Jax. Full Wolves gear, helmet off, chest heaving. He wasn't supposed to be here. Wolves practiced at 5 a.m. It was 7:30. He must have stayed.

His eyes locked on me. On Cole's hand on my waist. On his jersey on my body. On his name on my back.

Cole felt me tense. His hand tightened, pulling me closer.

"Don't look," he murmured in my ear, loud enough to carry. "He's just mad because his girl looks better in my colors."

Jax's jaw clenched. He pushed off the glass hard and vanished.

My stomach sank.

Practice was brutal. Cole was a terrible teacher because he was too good.

"Faster, Goldilocks! Bend! Shoot! Stop looking pretty!"

"I AM TRYING! YOUR DRILLS SUCK!"

At one point I tripped over my own skates and flew straight into him. We crashed to the ice, me on top of him, his jersey riding up, my hands flat on his bare chest under his practice jersey — because of course he wore no shirt underneath.

The whole team went silent, then whistles and "OOOOHs."

Cole looked up, breathing hard, hands on my hips. His eyes dropped to my mouth. Something real and startled passed between us, hot and fast.

"Get off me, Goldilocks," he whispered, voice rough.

"You get off me, Enforcer," I whispered back.

We laughed too loudly and got up. But his hands stayed a second too long.

By the time we got home, I had a bruise the size of Texas on my knee and 12,000 new followers from someone posting the fall.

"I need a shower and to die," I groaned.

"Me first. I have to look pretty for my girl," Cole said, already pulling his jersey over his head in the hallway. Shirtless. Again. "ESPN at 3 p.m. Wear cute but not too cute, I'll get jealous of myself."

"Cole! Clothes!"

"It's my house! Rule 8 says I can be shirtless whenever!"

He vanished into his bathroom. Shower started. Then singing. Loud, off-key country. Luke Combs murdered.

I showered in the guest bath, put on my own sweats — making a point — and came out to find Cole in the kitchen, hair wet, sweats on, still shirtless, making pasta with way too much garlic.

"You're still not wearing a shirt," I said, sitting at his island.

"You're still wearing my hoodie," he countered with his spatula. "Gray one. Stole it this morning. I have cameras."

I pulled the sleeve down guiltily. I had.

We ate. Silence that wasn't awkward. Just tired. Domestic.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "For letting me stay. And today."

He looked up, surprised, sauce on his lip. "You did good. For a Barbie."

"I learned at four!"

"I know. Jax was watching because he knows you're good. He always knew."

The mention of Jax made the air tight.

"Why do you hate him?" I asked.

Cole's face darkened. "Because he ended my best friend's career. And because he thinks he's better than me. And because he had you first."

Before I could answer, the doorbell rang. Loud. Three times. Angry.

Cole frowned. "No one rings my doorbell. Friends just walk in and steal food."

The bell rang again, harder.

He got up, still shirtless, annoyed. Yanked the door open.

Jax Carter stood on his porch.

Sweats, hair wet, chest heaving like he drove fast. Eyes red-rimmed.

He looked past Cole, straight at me — at his island, in Cole's hoodie, eating Cole's pasta, with Cole's name still faint on my skin.

"Ella," he said, voice raw. "We need to talk. Now."

Cole stepped in front of me, blocking me, shoulders squaring from roommate to enforcer in one second.

"She's busy," Cole said low.

"The hell she is." Jax's eyes never left mine. "Ella, please. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

I stood up. Heart pounding so loud they could hear it. Fork clattering.

Two boys in one doorway, both looking at me like I was the puck.

And I had to choose who to let in.