1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Brody Faulkner jogged up the stairs to the apartment, telling himself that the two flights were no big deal and he wasn’t even going to be upset about lugging groceries up them in the rain, because he and Ramsey, one of his friends on the Evergreens, the Portland University hockey team, were finally sharing a place together.

No more weird roommates who didn’t understand the crazy schedule collegiate athletes had to keep, or who looked down their noses at protein shake stains on the kitchen counters, pull-up bars in the doorway, and the never-ending, impossible-to-eradicate-completely smell of old sweat pervading the place.

Ramsey probably wouldn’t have been his first choice of roommate—he was a little bit of a loose cannon, but when push came to shove, he was a good friend and an even better hockey player—but Brody hadn’t minded because Ramsey had to be better than the other guys he’d roomed with before this, his junior year.

Brody’s first indication something was wrong was the pot full of half-dead plants sitting next to the door.

First, if Ramsey was staying here, they would one hundred percent be totally dead, because the guy had never met a planter he didn’t want to pee in.

Second, there was a football lying in it, resting in the dirt right next to the bedraggled plants.

Ramsey famously hated every sport that wasn’t hockey.

He wouldn’t touch a football with a ten-foot pole.

But maybe he would pee on it.

“You okay, honey?”

Brody glanced down the stairs and saw his mom, box in hand, one of Brody’s duffels slung over her other shoulder, straight dark hair tucked behind one ear, a concerned look on her face.

“Oh, I’m . . .” Worried because Ramsey is Ramsey. “I’m fine.”

“You just stopped there. On the third step from the top. Thought maybe you might’ve felt a . . .”

“My knee is fine.”

His knee was fine.

The doctors said he’d totally recovered from his season-ending ACL tear last year and that he’d be as fast as ever on the ice.

But mentally trusting the knee had surprisingly not come so easy.

There were some moments he still struggled with the worry that it would just give out again.

Today wasn’t one of those moments, ironically.

“Oh, good.” Tish glanced up at the doorway. “I didn’t know Ramsey was into plants. Could use a good watering, though.”

“He’s not. He’s really not.” But Brody didn’t get any more words out, because the door opened then, and that definitely wasn’t Ramsey filling the empty space, shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the doorframe.

“You must be Brody,” the guy said gruffly, shoving too-long chestnut hair behind his ears. “Hey, I’m Dean. Dean Scott.”

“Dean?” Tish asked hesitantly. Brody could feel her eyes on him and knew that he should’ve told his parents that he could move in without their help.

Ramsey wouldn’t have given a shit if his parents drove up from Northern California to help him move in. Okay, he would’ve definitely given Brody crap about it, teasing him about being a first grader needing his hand held on the first day of school, but it all would’ve been good-natured, because Ramsey liked his parents, too.

But this was a stranger.

Named Dean.

Brody unstuck his voice. “Where’s Ramsey?”

The huge mountain of a man sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. A big, broad chest. Brody knew his way around a weight room and could tell this guy spent a lot of time in one. Clearly an athlete of some kind.

Then there was the football in the planter. And the Evergreens logo printed, with “football team” underneath it, on the T-shirt currently plastered to all of Dean’s muscles.

Not just an athlete, but a football player.

Brody wanted to find Ramsey and wrap his hands around his neck and choke him slowly until his eyes bugged out and he laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe.

“Ramsey didn’t tell you.” Dean’s resignation was punctuated by another sigh.

“Apparently not. Let me guess, he’s not living here this year.”

“He . . .uh . . .” Dean scratched his scruff-covered chin. “Said he got a better offer.”

“Well, that’s rude and well . . .” Tish trailed off, and Brody looked over at her. They exchanged a look. “Very much like Ramsey,” she finished.

It did sound just like Ramsey.

That didn’t mean that Brody wanted to choke him out any less.

“Then yeah, I’m Brody.” Brody shifted the box he was carrying and held out his hand. Dean shook it, and Brody got a brief impression of callouses and strength, before Dean was motioning him into the apartment.

It was tiny, and even tinier with Dean in it.

That was going to take some getting used to. Brody hadn’t felt small in years, but Dean made him feel practically doll-sized.

“Apartment came furnished, but I brought a few things, and it seems like you’ve got some stuff,” Dean said. “I’ve been here a few months already—I’m on the football team.”

Right. Football season started way before hockey did. In the summer? Brody wasn’t sure; he didn’t spend much time thinking about football. He wasn’t actively against it, not like Ramsey, but it was easy to get absorbed in school and practice and games and forget that there were other sports teams on campus than just the hockey team.

“Right. I’m . . .I should call Ramsey.”

Dean’s gaze narrowed. Like he was suddenly worried. “You had your heart set on rooming with him?”

Well, no , not exactly. Not with Ramsey the person. But Ramsey, the known entity.

This Dean was a stranger. A nice enough stranger, Brody supposed, but Dean was supposed to be Ramsey .

“No, not exactly—”

But Dean didn’t let him get the explanation out. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. It’s hard for me to afford this place on my own.”

Brody met Dean’s intense glass green stare. Told himself not to feel ashamed of his parents’ Porsche SUV downstairs, his brand-new car in the parking lot, the new things his mom had insisted on buying that she was currently setting on the old, worn linoleum kitchen countertop.

Both his parents were successful doctors. He’d been lucky to never hurt for anything that money could buy. Hockey wasn’t the cheapest sport to get involved with, but he’d never worried about the costs associated with it—and Brody knew just how privileged that was.

“I . . .uh . . .” Brody hesitated. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He didn’t really want to live with Dean—but then when he thought about it, had he wanted to live with Ramsey, either?—but it would probably be fine.

The guy seemed decent.

“Good,” Dean said, with a firm nod. “You guys need any help bringing your stuff in?”

“No, I think we’ve got it—”

“Hey, Brody, what’s this football?” His dad walked in, salt-and-pepper hair gone more salt than pepper, gleaming under the fluorescent lights, his brown eyes taking in every inch of the worn furniture, blank white walls, and the scuffed vinyl flooring.

“It’s Dean’s,” Brody said, gesturing towards the big man. “My new roommate. Dean, this is my dad, Roger, and my mom, Tish.”

Brody gave Dean credit. He greeted them each with a grave smile and a quick handshake, even though Brody had already figured out that the guy wasn’t the most social creature on the planet.

He’d be quiet, if nothing else.

But Brody would still be wringing Ramsey’s neck for letting him show up without having any clue that he’d bailed and found some new guy to take his place.

Brody would definitely be adding an extra layer of shit that the new roommate was a football player.

It didn’t take long between the three of them to get Brody’s stuff moved in. He hugged his parents goodbye and then walked back into the apartment, more than ready to get unpacked and settled in.

The bedroom next to Dean’s was small but functional, with a double bed at least, instead of the regulation twin. The apartment had been listed as “mostly furnished,” including the beds, and so the larger bed made sense because Brody couldn’t imagine Dean fitting on a twin, anyway.

The bathroom was between them, again small but adequately sized, with a big tub that Brody already knew was going to alternate between soaking him and his equipment.

Toby, the Evergreens’ equipment manager, did a great job of taking care of stuff, but Brody liked to be a little more hands-on. Wash some things himself.

Brody was halfway through unpacking his clothes when a voice startled him.

“So, you brought your parents to move-in day.”

Brody looked up from one of his half-empty duffels, surprised. For a big guy, Dean even moved quietly. His comment wouldn’t have been unexpected coming from Ramsey, but he was surprised Dean would bring it up, especially considering they were basically strangers.

Roommates, now, but still strangers.

Thanks for fucking nothing, Ramsey.

“Uh, yeah,” Brody mumbled, willing his cheeks not to flush with embarrassment. He was twenty-one now, supposed to be a grown-ass man who didn’t need his parents, even acted like they didn’t exist. Certainly not like he needed them, still.

“Huh,” Dean said. That wasn’t exactly judgment in his expression or his tone, but it wasn’t not judgment either.

Brody honestly wasn’t sure what it was.

Maybe Dean always had that kind of closed-off face.

“You yell at Ramsey yet?” he asked next.

Brody might have to revise his previous opinion that Dean was going to be a quiet roommate, because that was two questions he’d asked now, clearly making an effort to create a conversation and some kind of camaraderie—if not a friendship—out of nothing.

“Not yet,” Brody admitted.

He’d been waiting until Dean left or until he went out, because there were things he wanted to say that he didn’t want the other guy to overhear. It wasn’t his fault that Ramsey had apparently changed his situation without even bothering to tell Brody.

Maybe Brody could’ve told him nevermind, I’ll find someplace else, but then there was the fact that Dean had clearly mentioned the expense of rent, and he’d been suddenly and acutely aware of never worrying about where next month’s rent was coming from.

His parents’ checking account, that was where.

“He a good friend of yours?”

There was a third question.

Brody looked up and decided that if Dean was making this kind of effort, he should actually reciprocate.

“No, but we play on the hockey team together.”

Dean nodded. “That’s what he told me. You’re what . . .a . . .uh . . .”

“Defense,” Brody supplied. He looked Dean up and down. “And you’re . . . a handy wall that the offense has to throw around?”

“Something like that,” Dean said, chuckling under his breath. “A linebacker. Edge rusher, actually.”

“Are they usually your size?”

“No,” Dean said. “But it’s what makes me good. I’m big, but I’m fast.”

Of course he was. He’d probably never gotten injured either, not seriously anyway.

Brody stopped himself from rolling his eyes. It wasn’t Dean’s fault, either, that he was a prime specimen of athletic ability or that Brody was already feeling anxious about getting back on the ice.

Not that it would be his first skate. He’d skated plenty since his knee had healed. But not officially. Not in front of their new-old coach.

New, because he’d just been hired to take the Evergreens over.

Old, because he’d coached at Portland U for years, before he’d left for the NHL.

And now he was back, and Brody would’ve probably been anxious about their first practice anyway, but now that he was going to do it under Gavin Blackburn’s watchful and notoriously expert eye?

Well, that wouldn’t be intimidating at all .

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about football,” Brody admitted.

“And I know jack shit about hockey.” Dean cracked another smile. “But I think we’ll manage to stay out of each other’s way well enough.”

If Brody thought that pronouncement was a little weird—after all, why was he hanging out here, trying to make conversation if he wanted them to only co-exist?—he didn’t say so because that would only make things weirder .

“Yeah, sure. But you know . . .uh . . .feel free to use any of the kitchen stuff my . . .uh . . .mom brought. The blender and stuff.”

“Your parents those helicopter types?”

Well, they were rich, sure. But they didn’t own a fucking helicopter. “No,” he said. “Owning a Mercedes isn’t the same as a helicopter.”

Dean stared at him for a long moment, then threw back his head and straight up cackled. “Not that they own a helicopter, are they helicopters?” Dean made a circling motion around his head. “Like they don’t leave you to your own shit.”

“Oh, no. No. Actually no.” Brody internally winced at his triple, no doubt very obvious, denial. “I just . . .we’re close. That’s all.” No, it’s not cool. I know that. He didn’t mind it when his teammates and friends or even Ramsey gave him shit about it, because they knew him and loved him, and got it. But this was some big stranger, three days of beard on his face, looking wary and together, like he’d laugh in the face of any parent who tried to help him do anything .

Who didn’t need a parent to carry some boxes to the second floor; who certainly didn’t want them to.

“That’s cool.”

“But yeah, I’m sure she overdid it.” Brody’s wince was not internal this time, much to his embarrassment. “Someone else should get to enjoy her zeal.”

“Zeal, huh?” The corner of Dean’s mouth tilted up, not quite in a smile, but in something. “You a lit major?”

He shook his head. “Biology.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Fucking serious? You’re a science major?”

“Yeah.” He was used to everyone thinking he was crazy at this point. The jock who also happened to be a nerd. “You?”

Don’t say you’re a physical education major, don’t say you’re a physical education major . . .

Those guys were always the worst, the type who rarely bothered with class, and would graduate just because they were bound for the pros in whatever sport they played.

Even Ramsey was in Communications, though that was mostly an excuse for him to send DMs to hot influencers and spend too much time on TikTok.

“Physical education, but don’t say it.” Dean was outright grinning now. “I actually go to fucking class.”

“Are you the only one who does?” Brody asked.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t give a fuck what anyone else does. Just me. I want to get a good education, have options, before I go to the NFL.”

Brody supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by the matter-of-fact way Dean said it, like it was inevitable, not even a question. He knew the football team was good, that a lot of their players got drafted into the pros.

And if Dean was as good as he claimed he was . . .well, maybe it was just a fact that he’d be going to the NFL.

“But shit, I know how it sounds,” Dean continued. “I know most of those guys are useless. And you’re in biology. Fuck . Why? Aren’t you going to go pro?”

“Actually, I’ve already been drafted. Third round, by the Hurricanes.”

“Oh. But you’re still in college?” Dean’s forehead crinkled, the way so many people’s did when Brody tried to explain why some hockey players entered the draft and then returned to play in college.

“Yeah, it’s a developmental kinda thing. And I want to finish my degree. My parents want me to finish my degree. So we’re in agreement, at least. But yeah, eventually, I’ll move on.” To what . . .well, Brody knew he was being deliberately nebulous. He was supposed to want to play professional hockey. He was supposed to be thrilled he’d been drafted. He had been thrilled.

He wanted to play—but when his knee had failed him last year, everything had changed.

He’d started to worry. To wonder.

There was no denying he’d had his future laid out for him from his early teenage years, and it was always what he’d wanted, what he’d worked so hard for. His only rebellion had been his major, the science classes he enjoyed too much to stop taking, but now, suddenly, with too much time on his hands, he’d started to think.

Ramsey would have told him thinking was a bad thing, and Brody shouldn’t hurt his brain by doing it too often, but he hadn’t been able to help himself.

It hadn’t helped that his mother kept dropping hints about medical school. She meant, of course, that he could do it after his professional career had ended. She had no idea that he’d started thinking about doing it now .

Well, he didn’t know what the hell he was gonna do. Brody was hoping a light bulb would switch on and he’d know , but so far, that hadn’t happened.

Instead, for right now, he wanted to focus on getting back on the ice. Hoping his knee would hold him the way it was supposed to.

“Well that’s cool. I never want to stop playing football.” Dean hesitated. “And I guess you don’t gotta worry about money, no matter what you do.”

“No,” Brody admitted. So much for the guy not noticing their expensive cars or the new Vitamix blender in its packaging, sitting on the kitchen counter.

“Figures,” Dean said, but he didn’t sound annoyed, more resigned.

He didn’t need to say the opposite was true for him. It was obvious.

“So that’s why you play, huh? The NFL? Getting rich?”

Dean shot him a look full of disbelief. “That wrong, somehow?” he demanded to know.

“No. No, of course not. Everyone’s gotta do what they gotta do,” Brody rambled, horribly aware that he’d stepped in his own shit despite being fully aware it was there.

“Right.” Dean turned to go.

“Listen,” Brody said, “I didn’t mean it like that. There’s nothing wrong with doing that.”

Dean gave him a fleeting smile, all teeth. “I know that, pretty boy.”

“Hey, I’m not—”

“Rich boy, then.”

Brody realized then, before he could argue back that he wasn’t pretty, he was a hockey player , and a damn good one too, that Dean was teasing him.

“Then I’m gonna call you big guy.”

“Yeah, never heard that one before,” Dean said, but he was smiling with genuine amusement now.

“Bet you haven’t,” Brody retorted.

He wasn’t just pretty, he still wanted to argue. He had a brain. He was more than just the thick, wavy hair he’d inherited from his mom, and the impeccable bone structure from his dad. And he certainly didn’t have their money, either. Not yet anyway.

But he’d been around long enough to know when a guy was giving him a hard time and when he was teasing, and with Dean, it was clearly the latter.

“Hey, I gotta run to practice. But good to meet you, pretty boy,” Dean said, flashing him one final grin before he turned towards his own room.

Brody finished unpacking, not that it took very long, because it felt like all he wore most of the year was either shorts or sweats, and one of the many Evergreens T-shirts he owned.

He’d sent a text to Ramsey telling him they needed to talk, and the answer came through right when he was finishing up.

Jimmy’s. Ten minutes.

Brody grabbed his wallet and keys and headed out, walking the block down the street to Jimmy’s diner, which was open twenty-four hours and was one of the hockey team’s favorite places to hang out.

Ramsey was sitting in the back of the diner in a booth, leaning against the cushion. “Hey, man, good to see you,” he said, rising and pulling Brody into a hug which he only resisted for half a second before finally giving in.

“What the fuck,” Brody said, as he slid in opposite him. “You just sprung a new roommate on me without even bothering to call? Text? Facebook messenger me? Even send out some smoke signals?”

“Oh, that,” Ramsey said.

“ Oh, that ,” Brody retorted. “Like it’s not a big deal!” He paused. “Hey, wait, what did you think I was pissed about?”

Ramsey waved a hand. “Ah, nothing. No big deal. So you met Dean, huh?”

“Of course I met Dean.” Brody rolled his eyes. “I showed up today and he was there. Not you. What happened?”

“Had a different offer I had to consider,” Ramsey said. The waitress approached then, and they ordered. Brody got the chef salad—Ramsey shooting him a semi-concerned look—and then added a plate of Jimmy’s famous french fries.

“ What different offer?” Brody demanded once she’d left. “And don’t you dare say it was a better one.”

Ramsey Andresen was one of the few seniors on the Evergreens, and to say he was wild was an understatement. Brody had discovered very quickly that whatever he expected out of Ramsey was the opposite of what might happen.

Usually he’d have a good time anyway; it always worked out, so it was hard for anyone to stay mad at him, but this whole last-minute roommate switch was a whole new level.

But Ramsey just shrugged. “I think this is gonna work out better for us all,” he said. “Dean needed a place, and you needed a roommate you could rely on.”

“Wait, you know Dean? He’s a—”

Ramsey grinned. “Yeah, we won’t hold it against him, alright?”

“ I don’t give a shit if he plays football,” Brody said.

“Exactly.”

Brody rolled his eyes. “You still could’ve told me.”

“No, ’cause you would’ve thrown a fit. Like a melodramatic twelve-year-old.”

“Not fair,” Brody said.

“Listen, Faulkner. We’d have made each other crazy. You know that. I’m making you crazy right now.” Ramsey leaned forward, grinning. “Are you gonna deny it?”

“You’re making me crazy because you switched roommates on me!”

“Do you not like him?”

“He’s . . .he’s fine. He’s . . .” Brody trailed off. “He seems like a decent enough guy. Quiet, probably.”

“You’ll like that. And think of all the rumors you’re gonna save yourself, from everyone who would’ve assumed we were hooking up.”

“I’m not—”

“Yeah, but I am, and let’s face it, this face is kinda irresistible.”

Brody supposed Ramsey was good-looking, if you swung that way, which he didn’t. Ramsey swung every way, which was fine, Brody hardly held it against him, but even if he’d been interested, he wouldn’t have wanted to be just another notch in Ramsey’s bedpost.

Which . . .that was another point.

“Guess those excellent noise-canceling headphones I bought aren’t going to come in handy after all,” Brody said, beginning to understand why Ramsey had decided this for both of them. Eventually, Brody might’ve gotten pissed at him.

Like if he felt like hosting someone the night before a big test, for example.

Or more than one someone.

“I feel like I should defend Dean’s honor and his prowess in the bedroom, but I’m gonna be honest, he’s even more of a nun than you are.”

“I—”

Ramsey leaned forward. “If you were gonna say you hook up, don’t even bother. I know you don’t really, and it’s cool, man. Not a requirement. Just saying. A total waste, yes, but still cool.”

“Thanks,” Brody said dryly. Then suddenly, it occurred to him why Dean might’ve called him pretty boy. Had he been flirting with him?

“Don’t worry about Dean, either. If he hooks up, I certainly haven’t heard about it. That guy actually goes to class.” Ramsey shook his head like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Ramsey, I actually go to class.”

“Exactly. You two are meant for each other. A match made in roommate heaven.” Ramsey grinned. “You can thank me now.”

“I’m not gonna thank you,” Brody grumbled. “You could have told me we weren’t a good match. You definitely could have told me about Dean.”

“Yeah, and then what would you have done? Gone off and found the next worst person. You’re smart, yeah, but only book smart. Don’t got a clue in your head about practical matters.”

Brody wanted to argue with him but it was clear Ramsey believed that was true, so what was the point?

He changed the subject, instead.

“You excited about practice tomorrow?”

“Coach Blackburn! Yeah, he’s gonna be fun to play for.” Ramsey seemed unconcerned that the coach with one of the most celebrated histories in Evergreens history was now back at the school and leading the team.

No pressure or anything.

Of course, if Ramsey ever felt the strain of expectations, he certainly didn’t show it. He was the epitome of grace under pressure, not even acting like he could overcome it but that it simply didn’t exist at all.

“Yeah,” Brody said. Wishing, not for the first time, that he could be more like Ramsey. He could emulate him, but he wasn’t really like him, not deep down, not underneath.

“How’s the knee?”

“Fine.”

Brody tried to keep his voice level. Normal . Was pretty sure he had, but then Ramsey gave him a hard look and tilted his head.

“You said that weird. All high and anxious. Is it really fine?”

“Of course it is. I had months off. Months to rehab it. I’m . . .I’m good. I swear.”

“But you’re still freaking out about it.” Ramsey said this matter-of-factly. So matter-of-factly that it was hard to deny, because what was the point?

Brody sighed. “It is fine. But yeah, I’m a little nervous, I guess.”

About the knee. About everything else.

“You don’t trust it yet.” Ramsey’s voice was shrewd now.

And man, Brody loved Ramsey, but he hated how he could see through even his best lies.

Now that he thought about it, there was no way he wouldn’t have ended up hating the guy if they’d stayed roommates.

“I will,” Brody said.

“Yeah, you will. You’ll be good. I think we got a real shot this year, maybe even win the conference.”

“You think?”

“You don’t think Elliott, Mal, and Ivan aren’t a fucking dynamite line?”

“They are,” Brody said cautiously.

“And with Finn at goal, you don’t think we’ve got a real shot?” He gave Brody one of his cockiest grins. The one that lured practically everyone to his bed. “And then there’s us. Best defensive pair in the conference.”

The waitress brought the food, saving Brody from answering—or from saying what he really wanted to say. Which was: don’t jinx it before the season even starts.

“You really gotta learn to relax. Unclench. Or something.” Ramsey said this as he shoved three french fries in his mouth.

Brody grimaced. “How do you get anyone to go to bed with you?”

“My huge dick,” Ramsey said, waggling his eyebrows.

“You’re a fucking Neanderthal,” Brody said.

“But that’s the best kind,” Ramsey retorted with a wild grin.