Chapter 5 Break The Rule

Drake

I lied.

I told her I wasn't her friend, that I didn't care, that she was just a glitch in the system. But three hours later, sitting in the locker room staring at my skates while the rest of the team laughed and shouted around me, I couldn't get her out of my head.

More than anything, I couldn't stop thinking about how her skin felt.

My thumb still tingled from brushing that bit of charcoal off her cheek. I could picture her hazel eyes going wide, and I could remember the soft, breathless gasp she made when I touched her. She was small next to me, but she had this fierce spark that made it impossible to look away.

"Hey, Cap! Earth to Morvane!"

A sweaty hockey glove hit my shoulder, snapping me out of it. I blinked and looked up to see Ronald, my assistant captain, grinning at me.

"You're slacking today, man," Ronald said, sitting next to me and starting to unlace his skates. "Coach noticed during drills. You missed two easy passes. What's up? Still stressed about the apartment thing?"

"It's fine," I muttered, leaning forward for my water bottle. "Just a roommate thing."

"Did Mr. Randall finally stick some nerdy freshman in your loft?" Ronald laughed, shaking his head. "I'd pay to see some poor kid try to survive living with you. You're like a drill sergeant in game mode. Just ignore them, lock your door, and focus on Friday's game against McGill. We need this win."

"Yeah," I said quietly, taking a long drink of water. "Focus."

But when I got back to the apartment that afternoon, all my focus fell apart.

I unlocked the door, expecting the heavy silence I'd grown to love over the past two years. Instead, warm indie-pop music filled the loft from a small Bluetooth speaker. The smell of cinnamon and fresh coffee hit me as soon as I walked in.

And there she was.

Rose was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room rug, surrounded by a chaotic sea of sketchbooks, charcoal pencils, and massive sheets of watercolor paper.

She wore an oversized, faded vintage band t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, showing smooth, golden skin and the sharp line of her collarbone. Her hair was piled into a messy bun, held together by a single pencil.

She was lost in her own world, fingers stained with black charcoal as she sketched on the paper in front of her. She hummed along to the music, not noticing how the sunlight caught the gold in her hair or how the T-shirt hem crept up her thighs.

I stood by the door, frozen, my hockey bag suddenly heavy in my hand.

The loud, aggressive world of hockey had surrounded my whole life. My dad's house was full of trophies and cold efficiency. My dorms were sterile. My arena was ice and steel.

But this was different. This was color. This was warmth. This was temptation breaking into my black-and-white world.

Rose stopped humming and looked up, as if she finally noticed me. Her eyes met mine, and she froze, her lips parting a little.

"You're back early," she said, her voice softer than this morning, unlike before.

"Practice ended," I managed, my throat suddenly dry.

I took off my jacket, trying to act normal, but my eyes kept drifting to the bare skin of her shoulder, the messy hair framing her face, and how right she looked sitting on my floor.

Just one thing I could think: beautiful.

I walked to the kitchen island, intending to grab water and hide in my room, as I promised. But as I passed her, my curiosity got the better of me. I glanced down at the massive sketchbook she was working on.

I expected a landscape. A flower. Some abstract art major stuff.

Instead, my heart stopped.

Sketched in stunning, hyper-realistic charcoal was the silhouette of a hockey player on the ice, his jersey flowing, his posture aggressive and powerful, frozen mid-shot. And stitched perfectly onto the back of the jersey, detailed with intricate shading, was the number 17.

She had been drawing me.

Rose noticed where I was looking, and her face instantly turned a violent, bright shade of crimson. She scrambled forward, desperately trying to flip the sketchbook closed, but her foot caught on the rug's edge. With a small cry, she lost her balance and slipped sideways toward the sharp edge of the coffee table.

Inertia. My body moved before my brain could process the risk.

I dropped my bag, lunged forward, and caught her by the waist just inches before she hit the wood. The force of my movement pulled her flush against my chest, and we both went down onto the soft rug, with her securely pinned beneath me.

The music played softly in the background, but all I could hear was her heart pounding against my ribs. Her hands pressed against my chest, fingers curling into my shirt, while my hands held her waist, fingers sinking into the soft skin above her hips.

God, she was tiny. And she fit perfectly under me.

The oversized shirt had ridden up even further, and the heat of her bare thigh was pressed right against the rough fabric of my jeans. Up close, she smelled intoxicating, like vanilla, paper, and a hint of the mint body wash she'd stolen from my bathroom.

She was staring up at me, her hazel eyes wide, dilated, and dark with a mixture of shock and something heavy, dangerous, and completely mutual.

My gaze dropped down to her lips. They were parted, her breath fanning hot and shallow against my neck. Every time her chest rose, it brushed right against mine, sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to my gut.

"Are you okay?" I growled, my voice dropping into a register so deep it was practically a purr. My chest rose and fell heavily against hers, refusing to give her an inch of breathing room.

"I..." Rose swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering wildly at the base of her throat. Her gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering there for a long, agonizing second before snapping back to my eyes. "I'm okay. Thanks."

I knew I should get up. I knew I should break the touch, apologize, and walk away. But looking down at her, seeing her cheeks flushed, feeling the heat of her body radiating against mine, and knowing that I was the one making her breath hitch like that.

I had just broken my rule.

I tightened my grip on her waist, pulling her closer against me so she could feel the uneven thud of my heart. I didn’t move or let go.