Chapter 2 The Leak

The walk back to the dorms was supposed to be a reset. I needed the crisp, midnight air of the Washington campus to scrub the scent of Jaxson Miller out of my lungs.

Every time I closed my eyes, I still felt the heavy thrum of his heart against my palms, a rhythm that felt less like a pulse and more like a countdown.

“You’re overthinking it, El,” I whispered to myself, my boots crunching on the frost-dusted pavement. “He’s just a hockey player. A beautiful, volatile, career-ending hockey player.”

I was Elena Vance. I had a 4.0 GPA, a color-coded planner for my MCAT prep, and a future that involved white coats and stethoscopes, not jerseys and penalty boxes.

I didn't do "volatility." I did stability. I did the safe bet.

But as I reached the quad of West Hall, the safety I took for granted was currently pouring out of the front doors in the form of a hysterical freshman in a bathrobe.

The sirens were the first thing I heard—a high-pitched, mocking wail that sliced through the quiet night. Then came the smell: wet plaster and old, stagnant iron.

“What happened?” I grabbed the arm of a girl I recognized from my psych lab. She was barefoot, clutching a damp pillow to her chest.

“Main pipe on the fourth floor,” she sobbed, pointing upward. “It’s like a tsunami, Elena. The whole west wing is gone.”

My stomach dropped into my shoes. The fourth floor. My floor.

I didn't wait for the fire marshal to stop me. I sprinted past the yellow tape, my lungs burning as I took the stairs two at a time.

The sound hit me before the water did—a roar of rushing liquid, like a subterranean river had decided to reclaim the building.

When I rounded the corner to my hallway, I stopped. I didn't even have the breath left to scream.

It wasn't just a leak. The ceiling outside room 412 had completely buckled. A jagged, gaping hole exposed the skeletal rebar above, and from it, a literal waterfall was thundering down. The carpet was a dark, sodden marsh, and the air was thick with the grey dust of disintegrated drywall.

“No,” I breathed, splashing through three inches of freezing water toward my door. “No, no, no.”

I fumbled with my key, my hands shaking so hard I nearly dropped it. When the door finally swung open, the devastation was total.

The water had found the path of least resistance: my desk.

My laptop, the one containing three years of research and my half-finished honors thesis, was sitting in a pool of grey sludge.

My textbooks—three hundred dollars a piece were swollen, bloated corpses of paper. My organic chemistry notes, the ones I’d spent six months perfecting with meticulously drawn molecular structures, were now nothing but streaks of blue and black ink bleeding into the floor.

Everything I was building. Everything that was supposed to get me out from under the shadow of my father’s "Golden Son" and into a life of my own.

It was drowning.

I slumped against the doorframe, the cold water soaking into my jeans, and for the first time in years, I let the tears come. I felt small.

-------

“I’m not staying in a Red Cross shelter, Leo. I’ll just find a motel.”

I was sitting on the tailgate of Leo’s truck an hour later, wrapped in a scratchy emergency blanket. My entire life was packed into three plastic bins—the only things I’d managed to salvage from my closet.

Leo stood over me, his face set in that stony, "Captain" expression that usually terrified rookies. He looked at the bins, then at my tear-streaked face, and I saw the protective fury ignite in his eyes.

“A motel? In this town? During a scouting weekend?” Leo shook his head, his voice a low growl. “Every room within fifty miles is booked by agents and press. And I’m not letting you stay in some dive on the interstate where the door doesn't even lock.”

“I can call Chloe,” I tried, though I knew Chloe lived in a sorority house that was already over capacity.

“Chloe’s house has a guest policy stricter than the NHL,” Leo snapped. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, pacing the length of the wet asphalt. “You’re coming to the Ice House.”

I froze. The image of Jaxson Miller’s bruised blue eyes flashed in my mind. “Absolutely not. It’s a frat house with better equipment, Leo. I can’t study there. I can’t breathe there.”

“You won’t be in the main house,” Leo said, stopping in front of me. He softened his tone, reaching out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind my ear. “The guesthouse in the back is quiet. It has its own entrance. It’s basically a studio apartment. You can lock the door, put on your noise-canceling headphones, and pretend we don't exist.”

I looked at my bins. I looked at the dark, flooded windows of my dorm. I had an exam in forty-eight hours. I had no notes. I had no home.

“Fine,” I whispered, hating how defeated I sounded. “But if a puck comes through my window, I’m suing the team.”

Leo let out a dry, relieved laugh. “Deal. Let’s get your stuff.”

The Ice House looked different at 2:00 AM than it did at midnight. The music had died down to a low hum, and the frantic energy of the party had been replaced by a heavy, drunken silence.

Leo hauled my bins toward the back of the property. A small, ivy-covered stone cottage sat about thirty yards from the main house. It looked peaceful. It looked like the sanctuary I desperately needed.

“Wait here,” Leo said, heading toward the cottage door.

I leaned against a tree, watching the main house. A single light was on in the top corner window. I wondered if that was Jaxson’s room. I wondered if he was staring out at the dark, thinking about the father people said he was destined to become.

Leo came back out of the cottage thirty seconds later. He wasn't carrying a key. He was rubbing the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“So,” he started.

“No,” I said immediately. “Whatever that 'so' means, the answer is no.”

“The water heater in the cottage burst yesterday,” Leo said, the words coming out in a rush. “Coach had a crew come in to rip out the flooring this morning. It’s a construction zone, El. There’s no power, no heat, and a very large hole where the bathroom used to be.”

I stared at him. “Then where am I supposed to sleep, Leo? On the lawn?”

“Look, it’s temporary. Just until Monday when the dorms assign you a new room.” Leo started walking toward the back entrance of the main house, gesturing for me to follow. “The guys agreed that the team needs to look out for family. We cleared it with everyone.”

“Cleared what exactly?”

We stepped into the mudroom of the main house. It smelled like laundry detergent and expensive leather. Leo led me up the back staircase, bypassing the messy common areas where half-conscious hockey players were sprawled on sofas.

We stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall. It was the only door with a keypad lock.

“This is the suite,” Leo said. “It’s the biggest one in the house. It has two separate sleeping areas, a private bathroom, and a desk that isn't covered in pizza boxes.”

“Leo, whose room is this?” My heart started to pick up speed. A rhythmic thud-thud-thud that matched the one from the kitchen earlier.

Leo sighed, looking at the floor. “The rookie’s. The team gives the first-round pick the suite to 'ensure his focus.' Jaxson has the bedroom in the back. You’ll have the front study area—the sofa pulls out into a queen-sized memory foam bed. It’s more comfortable than the dorms, I promise.”

I felt the air leave my lungs. “You want me to move in… with Jaxson Miller? The guy who almost started a riot two hours ago? The guy you told me to stay away from?”

“He’s the only one with enough space to give you privacy, El! My room is the size of a closet, and I share it with a guy who snores like a chainsaw. Jaxson is… he’s quiet. He stays to himself. I told him if he so much as breathes in your direction, I’ll strip him of his jersey before the scouts even sit down.”

Leo punched a code into the keypad. The lock clicked.

The room was unexpectedly dim, lit only by a single desk lamp in the far corner. It didn't look like a frat room. It was clean. It smelled like cedar and cold air. There were no posters on the walls, no trophies on the shelves. It looked like a cell. A very expensive, very lonely cell.

“Jax?” Leo called out softly.

A shadow moved in the back room. A second later, Jaxson Miller appeared in the doorway.

He wasn't wearing a shirt. His chest was a landscape of lean, hard muscle, and a large, dark tattoo of a compass rose stretched across his ribs. His hair was damp, falling over his eyes, and his jaw was set in a line of pure, unadulterated annoyance.

He looked at Leo, then his gaze slid to me. His eyes raked over my damp clothes, my messy hair, and the plastic bin I was clutching like a shield.

The storm I had seen in the kitchen hadn't disappeared; it had just gone cold.

“You’re late, Captain,” Jaxson said, his voice a gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.

“Dorm flooded. She’s staying here until Monday,” Leo said, his voice taking on a warning edge. “She stays on the sofa. You stay in your room. If I hear a single complaint, Miller, you’re doing suicides until you puke. Are we clear?”

Jaxson didn't look at Leo. He kept his eyes on me. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind of look that promised trouble and offered no apologies.

“Crystal,” Jaxson murmured.

He stepped back into the shadows of his bedroom, but before he closed the door, he caught my eye one last time.

“Welcome to the penalty box, Princess,” he said. “Try not to break any rules.”

The door shut with a soft, final click.