Five
MAINE
The number burns as much as this overpriced coffee, because I’ve got that much cash—and not much time to turn it around—after I managed to scrape together rent for another month. And, by scrape, I mean work about sixty hours in a week while also studying and playing hockey.
Sitting in Pine Barren Bagels, I’m listening to the espresso machine shriek while some chick absolutely loses her shit into a textbook two tables over. Her friend is promising her that the class isn’t important anyway, because lying to each other is what friends are for.
I slouch deeper into the cracked vinyl booth, throwing one arm across the back where someone has carved JESSICA SAYERS GIVES GOOD HEAD.
The statement is accurate, because I’ve got firsthand knowledge, and I’m glad for the distraction as my knees bounce a rhythm that’s half caffeine, half barely contained panic.
But when the bell above the door chimes, my nervous system goes haywire.
Maya fucking Hayes.
Jesus Christ on skates.
I’ve seen her around—everyone’s seen her—and we’ve even partied from time to time. The last time I saw her, she threw a rager so epic that Pine Barrens PD needed backup from the state troopers. But seeing her at keggers is different from watching her slice through Saturday morning like this .
She doesn’t walk, she detonates into spaces and totally fills the room, black ponytail swinging with military precision. She’s dynamite in designer denim—curves that make my mouth go dry, breasts that test the structural integrity of her V-neck, and an ass that should come with a warning label.
And the whole package is wrapped in bulletproof confidence.
She doesn’t even seek me out as she goes to the counter to order, but I sure as hell watch her. Conversations stutter and die in her wake, guys lock onto her ass and girls can barely hide their jealousy, and even the barista fumbles her change after she orders.
As she waits, it’s clear she doesn’t care what anyone around her thinks, but she’s not some drone staring at her phone, either. She watches everything and everyone, and when her coffee is ready she walks my way and slides into the opposite booth without asking.
I get a whiff of some expensive scent—something citrus—because of course she smells like a spa.
Of course she makes everyone else look like we crawled out of last night’s poor decisions.
Of course my sprawl suddenly feels like exactly what it is: a performance by a guy whose checking account is flatlining.
And, as I sit up a little straighter, her dark eyes scan me once. Full diagnostic. I watch her catalog every tell: the way I’m strangling this mug, how my jaw’s clenched tight enough to crack teeth, the fact that I’m bouncing my knee hard enough to register on the Richter scale.
“Maine,” she says.
But I’m speechless, even as I scream silently inside my head, because this is not how this works.
I don’t get intimidated. I’m two hundred and twenty pounds of functional mass that hits people for a living, then I celebrate so loud I get noise complaints.
I’m the life of the party—hell, I am the party—so what’s this?
The answer is clear: salvation, desire, and intimidation, all wrapped into one.
“I was starting to think you stood me up,” I manage, excavating my trademark grin from whatever hole my confidence crawled into. “Would’ve destroyed me.”
Zero reaction. Not a twitch. Those eyes just keep performing their live autopsy while I sweat through my undershirt.
The silence stretches longer than my last relationship—which lasted exactly two and a half dates before I remembered feelings are for people who can afford therapy—and I wonder who’ll break first.
Finally, she sighs, and I score my first win. “Let’s skip the part where you try to charm me. I’m immune, and you’re wasting both our time.”
She pulls out her phone—the latest model, case that probably cost more than my last three grocery runs combined—and places it down between us. On the screen, I can see she’s written out a lot of stuff, like a meeting agenda for this ‘could we be roommates?’ session.
Fuck, my only prep was sleeping an extra hour. So five in total.
“Compatibility assessment.” She leans back. “We’re both desperate enough to be here, so let’s skip the bullshit performance.”
I nod, even as my knuckles go white around the mug, and even as I want to protest. But it’s clear she’s not buying the fiction that I’m just casually browsing for someone to split utilities with, and definitely not one missed paycheck from couch-surfing or park-bench-surfing.
That ship already sailed, hit an iceberg, and Leo DiCaprio’s already frozen. I could blame Mike—because I told him and he told Sophie and Sophie probably told Maya—but the truth of my exhaustion should be obvious to anyone who’s looking.
And if Maya can do anything, it’s read people.
She continues without waiting for me to reply. “I host parties once a month. They involve music that makes your teeth rattle, randoms passed out in creative positions by 3:00 a.m., and enough booze to fill several bathtubs. Is that going to trigger your delicate sensibilities?”
Finally.
Something I recognize.
Banter and ego.
“I bring twenty hockey players over after every home game,” I fire back, finding my footing. “Dudes who smell like jockstraps fucked a dead raccoon, eating everything that’s not nailed down. Are you going to cry about toxic masculinity, or can you hang?”
Something shifts in her expression, and the smallest hint of a smirk appears. It’s not quite approval, but maybe the Maya Hayes equivalent, like a shark deciding you’re not worth eating just yet. And, suddenly, this heavyweight fight between campus bigshots feels a bit less one-sided.
“As long as they’re gone by morning, and don’t try to sleep with me.” She snorts. “I have standards, and hockey players just… no…”
The negotiation goes on as we lock eyes across the scratched table—two apex predators figuring out territory. The air between us isn’t hostile, not exactly, but it sure as hell isn’t friendly, either. It’s clear this is the compromise we’re both needing to make because we’re all out of choices.
She crosses her legs, denim whispering promises I have no business thinking about. Christ. This is a business meeting. A humiliating, soul-crushing business meeting for me, because I’m broke. So now we’re circling each other and determining if we can share space.
“Sex,” she says, and the word hangs between us.
I almost choke on my coffee. “What about it?”
“I bring guys home—different ones, sometimes more than one, and never the same twice.” She pauses, seeing how I’ll react. But when I keep my face neutral, she continues. “They don’t sleep over, because I don’t want them using my towels or eating my Greek yoghurt. Is that going to be a problem?”
“Why would it be?”
“Because they’re in and they’re out,” she says. “And, for some guys, that would seem like an opportunity even if they’re not invited.”
The bluntness is designed to shock, but honey, I’ve been playing this game since I figured out making girls laugh was the express lane to getting them naked. I’m done with feeling uncomfortable, so it’s time to remind her she’s not the only one with a reputation.
“Likewise.” I spread my arms wider, reclaiming some real estate. “I have all the women I want, frequently, never for breakfast, and on a three-date maximum, so there’s no danger of me hitting on your designer ass, because I sense you’d be a lot more work than I’m willing to put in.”
“I wouldn’t be easy, you mean?”
I shrug. “The apartment is a no-judgment, no-feelings zone.”
She studies me with the intensity of someone deciding where to hide my body. “Good. Next, my clinical rotations are brutal, and my hours are chaotic.”
“I play hockey.” I grin. “Try practice at eight, followed by a day of classes, then an away game, then finally into bed at midnight.”
Then she does something I don’t expect. She laughs. “Honestly, college schedules should qualify as an Olympic sport. Logistical nightmare.”
The comment hits differently than expected. It’s sharp, self-aware, funnier than anything I expected from someone who’s been interrogating me. And suddenly I’m not looking at the intimidating reputation or the frankly criminal ass or the way her sweater clings to her curves.
I’m seeing the brain that treats chaos like fun.
My chest goes tight, pulse hammering, and that familiar heat starts low in my gut—the one that usually means I’m about to do something spectacularly stupid with someone I definitely shouldn’t touch.
This is catastrophically bad , my mind offers.
Because Maya Hayes isn’t just some hot party girl who I desperately need to contribute to my rent. She’s brilliant. The kind of smart that sees through my bullshit and categorizes it by molecular structure. The kind that makes my usual moves look like a peewee player trying to deke Gretzky.
She’s not just out of my league, she’s playing a different sport and we both know it.
While I’m over here with my communications degree and a bank account that’s flatter than day-old beer, she’s the hot chick who graduated from the best schools and has the richest family anyone around here has heard of.
So why the fuck does she need to live with me?
Mike told me that she’s having a spat with her parents, but is that all?
But before I can think about it more, she continues. “Utilities split even, groceries separate except for communal basics, and common areas stay neutral and clean.”
I nod.
“No touching each other’s stuff, no remarks about each other’s choices, and absolutely no developing feelings. Think you can handle all that?”
The last part hits hard. Maybe she caught me staring, or noticed how I’m gripping the table like it’s the only thing keeping me from floating away. But I’ve got a reputation to maintain, and I’m practically hard over how this woman turns rental agreements into foreplay.
“Please.” I scoff, mining for bravado in the wasteland of my dignity. “I’m emotionally unavailable by design. Check my Google reviews.”
She tilts her head, those eyes dissecting my bullshit with ruthless efficiency.
For a second I’m positive she’ll call me on it—point out that I’m currently having more feelings than a Hallmark movie marathon, and desperate enough to seek a roommate via his friend’s girlfriend’s social network—but she just nods.
“Perfect,” she says, assuming she’s got the gig before I even confirm it, like she’s never been denied anything by anyone in her life. “Then we have a deal.”
She stands in one fluid motion that shorts out what’s left of my brain, her body a study in compact, concentrated intimidation.
She looks down at me—actually down , despite me almost being taller sitting than she is standing—and I swear she’s mentally filing me under ‘Hamilton, Maine; Disaster; Hot.’
“I’ll text you my move-in logistics,” she says, giving me the ghost of a smile. “Try not to do anything that requires bail money or an ambulance between now and then, because interviewing one emotionally stunted man-child is more than enough.”
“No promises,” I manage, but she’s already walking away, that ponytail swinging with each step.
I watch her leave because I’m weak and she’s got an ass that could make a priest reconsider his career choices. The bell chimes her exit, abandoning me with cold coffee and the crushing realization that I’ve just signed up to ride a tornado.
This was supposed to be simple. Find a roommate. Split rent. Avoid homelessness. Basic shit that even my last functioning brain cell could handle without adult supervision. But, instead, I’m replaying the exact way her voice dropped an octave on “sex”.
And one thing becomes crystal fucking clear: I haven’t solved my problem.
I’ve traded it for the one person on Earth who can match my energy.
Because Maya Hayes isn’t just a roommate. She’s a natural disaster in designer denim, a woman who could destroy me without smudging her lipstick or breaking a nail. And I just invited her to share my living space, my utility bills, and what’s left of my sanity after four years of Division I hockey.
And the truly fucked part?
I’m already counting down the minutes until she moves in.
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