"Where is it?" I mumbled into my cramped closet.

The few boxes I managed to take with me from Miles' apartment were stacked in a semi-chaotic tower that threatened to tip at any moment. To be fair, they were much more organized until I went searching for a particular box of textbooks I remembered packing into the back of Hendrix's truck.

I scratched my forehead with unpainted nails, trying to think about where it could have ended up. Where else could they possibly be? Thinking they might magically appear, I sifted through the rack of clothes while I scanned the floor one last time. When the box didn't pop out of thin air, I closed the closet door and turned on my heel.

Besides the mound of sheets on my bed, there was nowhere this box could be hiding. I let out a sigh. If I wasn't already behind on my philosophy readings, I might not have cared to find them. But while I was planning on burning them in celebration once the semester was over, I also wasn't about to repurchase hundreds of dollars of textbooks because of a misplaced box.

Even though I didn't want to bother any of my new housemates, I figured that enlisting someone's help was better than walking around aimlessly. Someone in the Hockey House knew where that box was. I simply had to ask.

Stepping out into the hallway, I figured I'd work my way around. Starting with the guy who slept across the wall.

Maverick had made it pretty clear he wasn't the biggest fan of me living there. But I could have sworn there was a shift the night we spoke in the kitchen. Did I think he was still irritated by my presence? Sure. But he was more tolerant of me since we returned from collecting my things.

I knocked twice, leaving little to no pause before I flung open the door.

That was a mistake.

My eyes landed on Maverick's bed, half-expecting him to be sprawled out and relaxing before the game tonight.

That is not what I saw.

The toned muscles of Maverick's ass flexed as he twisted around to face me, a pair of legs draped over his shoulders. Instead of being flustered by my intrusion he raised a thick eyebrow and paused mid-trust. "Need something?"

My eyes were as wide as dinner plates, and a flush of heat spread up my neck.

"Uh—sorry!" I stammered, my voice coming out higher than I'd intended.

Embarrassment surged through me and urged me to make as much space between myself and Maverick as possible. I swiveled on my heel and bolted, my heart pounding in my ears as I made my way towards the stairs. I could feel my face burning, my hands instinctively cupping my cheeks as I rushed down to the main floor, mortified.

God, why hadn't I waited for him to reply?

But more importantly, why hadn't I heard them? Was this I sign that I was becoming desensitized hearing Maverick's sex life through the thin wall between our rooms? Or was it the fact that he had so many women over that I didn't even take notice of the grunts and the groans anymore?

I stumbled into the kitchen, hoping to cool down my face and my nerves. Easton was by the counter, scrolling through his phone, while Booker was shoveling what looked like an entire sandwich into his mouth. A tall glass of milk next to the sauce covered plate. They were already partially dressed in their pre-game suits. Partially, because Booker wore a skin-tight wife beater instead of his dress shirt that was casually draped over a chair by the kitchen table.

He noticed me come in first, giving me a nod of acknowledgment as he chewed. "Hey," he mumbled through a mouthful, "you good?"

I forced a smile, trying to act like I wasn't about to die of embarrassment. "Yeah," I breathed, avoiding eye contact as I grabbed myself a glass of water.

Unsure if my face was still as red as it felt, I tried to put the attention on something–anything–else. "Have either of you seen a box of my textbooks laying around?"

Easton glanced up from his phone. "No. Not down here anyway.

"I was sure we packed them up in Hendrix's truck, but they aren't in my room."

"They're probably still in there," Booker said after swallowing. He barely took a breath before taking another bite. "I remember lugging that thing out of the basement. It was fucking heavy."

While Booker mumbled over his words, I took a long sip to steady myself.

"So you just left it there?" Easton pointed his question at his teammate.

"I was starving by the time we got back," Booker argued.

Easton shook his head as he made eye contact with me. "I'll grab it out of the truck when we get back tonight."

"That would be great. Thanks," I said, sliding into a seat at the island. "I'm crazy behind with most of the required readings for my classes. How have things been with the Falcons?"

"Rough," Easton stated, rubbing a hand through his short black hair.

Booker sucked the sauce off of one of his fingers. "Coach's been riding us hard lately. I don't blame him though. We've been playing like shit."

I nodded along, but my mind was still upstairs, replaying what I'd just walked in on. The image was burned into my brain, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake it. The reminder of what I had walked into flared when the stairs at the front of the house creaked––Maverick's lean body descending down the stairs. Thankfully, with pants this time. His brown hair was tousled in a way that made it look like he had just woken up from the greatest cat-nap, but I knew better.

From the corner of my eye, I watched as Maverick ushered his hookup down the stairs and out the front door. He lingered there for a moment, talking to her by the open door. I tried my best to ignore it and focus back on the conversation in the kitchen. Booker and Easton were still talking about their rough start to the season when Maverick decided to wander in.

There was a sly gleam to his espresso eyes as he smirked. "If you wanted a front-row seat, Celeste, you should've just asked." His tone dripped with amusement like kerosene on the open flame that was my humiliation.

A rush of heat flashed across my cheeks for the second time that afternoon. Unfortunately, this time, the glass of water between my hands wouldn't do anything to cool me down. Not when the cause for my discomfort was standing a mere few feet away.

I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to muster up a glare. "Do you ever spend any time alone in your room?" I shot back, my voice laced with sarcasm.

Maverick drug through the fridge, unbothered by my tone. "I gotta blow off steam somehow."

I scrunched up my nose, hiding my grimace behind my glass of water. I couldn't help but think he was being callous, flaunting his little rendezvous like it was nothing. I wouldn't pretend to know anything about Maverick. But I would be ignorant not to take note of the reputation he was building for himself.

Still, knowing it––or hearing it––and seeing it were two different things.

"Blowing off steam? Shouldn't you be conserving your energy for your game tonight?"

The movement of Maverick's arm as he reached for a can of something in the fridge skittered. There was a long pause in the conversation before he replied. "I'm not playing."

None of the three men in the kitchen moved. It was like I was part of a tableau––everyone in the kitchen frozen in their spot.

"Why not?" I asked, when Maverick placed the can of diet soda onto the counter.

But he didn't look at me. I glanced over at Easton, curiosity taking the place of the mortification I was harboring.

Easton didn't return the eye contact for long. His cool gaze drifted back to Maverick. It was a silent message that he wasn't going to be the one to divulge any information.

"I've been benched for the next few games," Maverick said as he cracked open his drink and took a swig.

My head snapped back towards him. "Benched?" I asked, blinking.

"He's sitting out," Booker explained. Tension continued to seep into the room. There was more to the story than any of them were letting on. I felt like a little kid who wasn't in on the secrets being shared on the playground. Thankfully, Maverick didn't hold back much longer.

"Your ex," he said, his expression darkening. "He went straight to my coach."

My jaw fell open, heart sinking. This was exactly the thing I was trying to avoid. Even though I was distancing myself, Miles was still able to mess around with things, and people, in my life.

Booker clapped Maverick on his back. "No sweat. He'll be back on the ice in no time," he said. "Think of it as a mini vacation away from Miller and his bullshit."

Maverick scoffed as he took another sip of his drink. "It'd feel more like a vacation if I didn't still have to go to practice."

Booker ignored his teammate's complaint as he regarded me from across the island. "Which reminds me, you should come to our game tonight, Celeste."

I hesitated, still feeling the weight of the bomb that was casually dropped on me. "I don't know..."

"Come on," Booker pressed, his tone cheerful. "It'll be fun. Ricky can come watch with you."

"Is that so?" Maverick asked with the upward shift of his brows.

Easton snickered. "You can be our new cheerleader."

"Yeah," Maverick rolled his eyes. "I'll get my pom-poms ready."

I couldn't help but smile a little, drawing his attention to me. "I guess I could come."

_ _ _ _ _

author's note:

I've officially passed 20,000 words with this story! That means I'm a quarter a way through. How crazy is that? The set up is done, now get ready for the fun (:

Happy reading!