Oops! I'm Living With The Hockey Captain

ROSE MURPHY

Today is my moving day. I pictured everything going smoothly as I started my junior year at the University of Toronto—cheap takeout, a mostly quiet place, and a roommate who actually respected personal space.

But instead, it turned into a total nightmare.

My back felt like a Zamboni had run over it after hauling three oversized moving boxes up four flights of stairs because the elevator was "out of service until further notice." My fingers were raw, my oversized gray hoodie was damp with sweat, and all I wanted—all my soul craved—was to drop my heavy duffel bag, collapse onto a bed, and sleep for the next business week.

I unlocked the door to Apartment 4B, expecting it to be empty. Or maybe a quiet girl unpacking books.

I got neither.

The second the door swung open, the scent hit me first. It wasn’t old paint or cardboard boxes. It was the crisp, overwhelming scent of mint body wash, expensive cologne, and a faint hint of cold, winter air.

Then came the visual. And oh boy, it was a visual.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen was a huge, muscular guy. He had to be six-foot-three, with broad shoulders and a back that looked like it belonged in a statue. He wore only a low-slung white towel around his hips. Water still dripped down his back, following the lines of his muscles before disappearing under the towel.

I froze. My muscles locked. My brain completely short-circuited. My heavy duffel bag slipped from my numb fingers and hit the hardwood floor with a loud, echoey thud.

The guy spun around. Fast. His dark, messy hair whipped with the movement, sending a few stray droplets of water flying onto the granite countertop. He had sharp, striking features, a jawline that could probably cut glass, and piercing, icy-blue eyes that narrowed the second they landed on me.

If looks could freeze water, I'd be a human ice sculpture right then and there.

"Who the hell are you?" his voice rasped. It was deep, rough, and completely devoid of anything resembling hospitality. "And how did you get into my apartment?"

I blinked, forcing my gaze to snap violently upward, tearing my eyes away from his absurdly defined eight-pack. Focus, Rose. Do not look at the abs. He is trespassing.

"I’m Rose," I stammered, pulling my shoulders back to look as imposing as a five-foot-four girl in baggy sweatpants could look. "The new tenant. I signed the lease last week. Who are you? The plumber?"

The guy let out a harsh, dry laugh. It wasn't a happy sound. He crossed his massive arms over his chest, a tactical error, because it only made his biceps bulge to a ridiculous degree, and leaned back against the counter.

"The plumber?" he repeated, his tone dripping with pure, concentrated mockery. "Try again, sweetheart. I live here. This is my apartment."

"Excuse me?" Rage, hot and sudden, flared up in my chest, effectively burning away my exhaustion. I yanked my phone from my pocket, my fingers shaking slightly as I tapped to open my emails. "Look, buddy, I don’t know what kind of twisted frat-boy prank this is, but I have the official university housing confirmation right here. Apartment 4B. Room 17."

As soon as I said 'Room 17,' everything about him changed. The annoyance disappeared, and he suddenly looked cold and deadly serious. He stepped toward me, moving slowly and deliberately.

All at once, the open-concept apartment felt much smaller. He didn’t even have to try to invade my space—he just stood over me, as imposing as a storm cloud.

"Listen to me very carefully," he said, dropping his voice an octave, his tone dangerously quiet. "I don’t know if you’re one of those puck bunnies from the arena who tracked down my address, or if this is some sick joke my defensemen are playing on me, but you picked the wrong day. Pack your bag and get out before I call campus security."

Puck bunny? Arena? Defensemen?

My brain scrambled for a second before my eyes darted past his broad shoulder, taking in the living room for the first time.

A sleek, matte-black Bauer hockey stick propped against the arm of the gray sofa. Above it hung a framed navy-and-white jersey, with the word TORONTO stitched across the front in bold block letters. Right beneath it was a massive, unmissable number 17.

Drake Morvane.

The name hit me like a slap. I didn't follow sports, but you couldn't survive a single week on this campus without seeing his face on banners, student flyers, and sports headlines. He was the star captain of the Toronto Varsity Blues hockey team. The campus golden boy. The resident ice royalty, known for being untouchable, fiercely private, and notoriously antisocial.

And I was currently standing in his kitchen while he wore nothing but a towel.

"I don't care if you're the king of Canada," I snapped, my brain's filter to my mouth completely disintegrating. "I have spent the last three hours hauling my entire life up four flights of stairs. I paid a two-month deposit for this place, and I am not sleeping on a park bench in thirty-degree weather just because you think you own the city. I am not leaving."

For a moment, we both fell silent. He looked at me like I was a strange, irritating insect that had just crawled through his window and demanded a seat at his table.

"You think you're staying here?" he asked, a dark, dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "With me?"

"If I have to," I shot back, lifting my chin defiantly. "So you better go put some actual pants on, Captain, because we need to figure out who is calling the landlord first."

Drake didn't break eye contact. He leaned in just a fraction closer, enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his skin. "You're making a huge mistake, Rose."

"I guess we'll find out," I whispered back, my heart hammering against my ribs, partly from anger, and partly from the terrifying realizations of what my junior year was about to look like.

Welcome to Toronto, Rose. Population: You and a very pissed-off hockey captain.