Chapter 10
Ten
BASS
Kai's apartment building is nothing like what I expected.
It's small, older, and tucked into a corner off campus, where the rent is probably cheap enough for students who actually have to worry about money. It’s the kind of place I never had to think about because hockey has been paying my way since my sophomore year of high school.
I climb the stairs to the second floor, laptop bag slung over my shoulder, feeling oddly nervous. Not the good kind of nervous I get before a big game—this is different. Like I'm about to take a test I didn't study for.
The hallway smells like vanilla and butter, warm and sweet in a way that makes my stomach growl. When I knock on 2B, the smell gets stronger.
"Coming!" a voice calls from inside—not Kai's voice.
The door swings open to reveal Kai’s roommate, Sue, with what looks like flour in her dark hair and an apron that says "Kiss the Cook" stretched across a VCU t-shirt. Now that I’m taking a second look at her without an agenda, I notice that Sue is pretty in an approachable way, all curves and a bright smile.
“We meet again," she says, looking me up and down. “In case you don’t remember, I’m Sue, Kai's roommate and personal chef."
"That explains the incredible smell,” I chuckle.
"Rice Krispies treats," she says proudly. "Fresh out of the oven.”
“Do you always bake this early in the morning?”
I’m not used to anyone being this bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this time of morning except for student athletes. It's freakin' weird.
“Yep, you want one?"
I’m not supposed to be eating a shit ton of sugar especially during this time of day but the smell hits me with full force now, and for a second, I'm eight years old again, standing in my mom's kitchen while she melts marshmallows and butter on the stove.
The memory is so sharp it makes my chest tight.
"Actually, yeah," I say. "That would be amazing."
Sue grins and disappears into the kitchen. I hear her rummaging around, then she's back with a square of golden perfection on a paper towel.
I take a bite and close my eyes. "Jesus."
"Good?"
"My mom used to make these," I say without thinking. "Same recipe, I think. She'd use brown butter."
"That's exactly what I do!" Sue's face lights up. "Most people don’t know that secret, but it makes all the difference. Your Mama must be southern.”
"Yeah." I take another bite, tasting childhood Saturday nights and the way my mom would hum while she cooked. “She said brown butter was the secret. Her side of the family is from Nashville.”
"Smart woman. I like her already."
Kai and Sue’s apartment is small but cozy.
There’s mismatched furniture that somehow works together.
There are photos on the walls—Kai with Sue, Kai with an older man who must be her father, Kai at what looks like graduation.
In every picture, she's smiling, but it's different from how she looks at me. Softer. Unguarded.
"She's in her room getting ready," Sue says, following my gaze. "Fair warning—she's sort of a bitch in the morning.”
“I don’t believe that,” I say sarcastically.
"When Kai's nervous, she doesn’t sleep well. And when she doesn’t sleep well, she’s mean as a snake."
I file that information away.
Kai Vega gets nervous.
About me.
"Bass?" Kai's voice comes from down the hall. "You're early."
"Only by ten minutes," I call back.
"Still early."
Sue rolls her eyes. "See what I mean?”
A door opens and Kai appears, laptop in hand, wearing dark jeans and a cream-colored blouse that hugs her curves in all the right places.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath.
Her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she looks professional, put-together and absolutely fucking beautiful.
"Ready?" she asks, all business.
"Born ready."
Sue snorts. "You two are adorable. I'll be in the shower if you need anything, Kai. And Bass?" She hands me another Rice Krispies treat. “Feel free to take a few of these when you leave.”
“Appreciate you, Sue,” I tell her.
Kai's room is exactly what I expected and nothing like it at the same time.
Clean, organized, everything in its place.
But there are little details that surprise me—a worn stuffed elephant on her dresser, fairy lights strung around her mirror, a framed photo of her with a woman who has the same dark eyes and warm smile.
“Nice room,” I say while licking the sticky marshmallow residue off my fingers.
“Uh, do you need to wash your hands before we start?” she wrinkles her nose.
“Nope, I’m all good.” I wipe them both down the front of my grey sweatpants. “Is this your mom?" I ask, nodding toward the photo of the woman who looks like Kai.
Kai's expression softens for just a second. "Yeah. She died when I was fifteen."
“Damn, I’m sorry. Was it cancer?”
“No, it was a bad reaction to anesthesia.”
“Wow.” I never heard of someone dying from that in the real world, only on medical dramas.
“Yeah, and it was as horrible as it sounds, which is why I don’t really like to talk about it.”
Strike one.
“Understood.”
Kai sits cross-legged on her bed, opening her laptop. "She would have liked this—me working with athletes.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“She loved baseball."
“Do you love baseball too?”
I hope not.
“Yep.” She pulls up a document, fingers flying over the keys. “Mom took me to Phillies games every summer. She always said that sports taught you everything you needed to know about life."
I sit in her desk chair, which is small and definitely not made for someone my size. "What did she mean?"
"Teamwork. Perseverance. How to lose gracefully and win with class." Kai glances at me. "Things that apparently don't translate to hockey."
Strike two.
“Ouch,” I dramatically clutch my heart. “Shots fired.”
But she's almost smiling when she says it, and that feels like progress.
"Okay," she says, pulling up what looks like a presentation. "Let's talk about your brand rehabilitation."
For the next thirty minutes, she walks me through slides about "authentic messaging" and "consistent brand identity." She shows me examples of athletes who've successfully rebranded after public scandals, breaks down their strategies, and explains how social media can be a tool instead of a weapon.
Not only is Kai gorgeous, but she's brilliant. The way she thinks, the way she connects ideas—it's like watching an artist work. I find myself leaning forward, genuinely interested in what she's saying, even though half my attention is on the way she bites her lower lip when she's concentrating.
"The key," she says, "is finding the real you underneath all the noise. What do you actually care about? What drives you?"
"Hockey," I say automatically.
"Deeper than that."
I think about it. Really think about it. "Proving people wrong, I guess. Everyone's always had an opinion about who I should be. My dad. My teammates. My coaches. They all want me to be a leader, but only in the ways they approve of."
Kai's typing as I talk, and I realize I've never actually said any of this out loud before.
"So you fight back," she says. "You act out because it feels like the only way to maintain control."
"When you put it like that, it sounds like I’m an immature asshole.”
"It sounds human." She looks up from her screen. "But it's not sustainable. Eventually, you have to decide who you actually want to be instead of just reacting to who everyone else wants you to be."
Well, damn.
The room feels smaller suddenly. More intimate. She's looking at me like she's trying to solve a puzzle or analyze a patient.
"What about you?" I ask, obviously, deflecting. "Who do you want to be?"
"Successful. Independent. Someone my family would be proud of." She closes her laptop. "Someone who doesn't have to worry about money or whether she's good enough or if she deserves to be in the room."
"You definitely deserve to be in the room."
“There are systems in place in society to make sure that people like me are kept out of the room.”
“You're smarter than half the people in my classes. I know you work harder than anyone I've met. And I know you're not here because of luck or connections. They’ll have no choice but to allow you in the room.”
She's quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if I've said too much.
"Why are you here?” she asks finally.
“What do you mean?” And now I’m wondering if I pissed her off. “I’m here because of our assignment.”
“I heard everything your coach said to you, but let’s be honest, you don’t really have to do this. You are a part of the big three on the team. VCU doesn't win if Bass Morelli isn't on the ice as the enforcer. Bad reputation or not, I think we both know you're going to get a pro offer.”
Her words hang between us heavily. I could deflect, make a joke, keep things light. But something about the way she's looking at me—curious, careful, like she might actually want to know the answer—makes me want to be honest.
"Because," I say, "I've never met anyone who saw right through my bullshit from day one. And instead of wanting to change you or impress you or win you over, I just... want you to see me. The real me."
Her breath catches, just slightly, but I notice it.
"Bass—"
"I know you think I'm just some privileged asshole who doesn't take anything seriously. And maybe that's who I've been. But when I'm around you, I want to be better. I want to be the kind of person who deserves your respect."
She's staring at me now, lips slightly parted, and the air between us feels charged. Electric.
I lean in closer to her and can tell she's holding her breath as her heart thumps through her chest. I run a few of my fingers along her delicate collarbone exactly where her skin and the collar of her blouse meet.
"This is a bad idea," she says quietly.
"What is?" I tease in a thick voice.
"Whatever this is."
I lean forward, close enough to smell her perfume—something clean and warm and intoxicating. "What if it's not?"
For a second, I think she might close the distance between us. Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I can practically feel the pull, the magnetic force that's been building between us since that first night at the Ice House.
But I can't wait any longer, so I close the distance between us myself and kiss her slightly parted lips. They're soft and warm and I find my dick growing embarassingly hard with each agonizing second.
Thankfully, she doesn't stop me or slap me. Instead, she parts her lips even further, allowing my tongue inside to explore hers.
She likes this.
The kiss is fucking fantastic and only validates my assumption that Kai Vega is probably hot as hell in bed.
And just when I'm about to wrap my arm around her waist to pull her in closer, Kai's phone buzzes with a notification, and the spell breaks.
Dammit, strike three.
She clears her throat, wiping her mouth, straightening up. "We should get back to work."
"Right. Work."
But as she opens her laptop again, I catch her sneaking glances at me. And when our fingers brush as she shows me a slide on the screen, she doesn't pull away immediately.
Progress, I smile to myself.
Even if it feels like the slowest, sweetest torture imaginable.
This is fucking progress.