Chapter 3
Max
My apartment was a shrine to silence.
It was a top-floor unit in a renovated industrial building on the edge of town, far enough from "The Hive" to escape the bass-heavy thumping of Jinx’s terrible taste in music, but close enough to the rink to ensure I was always the first one on the ice.
The floors were polished concrete. The walls were exposed brick, painted a matte charcoal. The furniture was minimal—leather, steel, glass. Everything had a place. Everything had a purpose.
There were no knick-knacks. No throw pillows. No clutter.
Clutter was a disease. I had grown up drowning in it.
My childhood home had been a labyrinth of stacked newspapers, broken appliances my father promised to fix, and towering piles of unwashed laundry that smelled of mildew and neglect.
I had learned to navigate the world by shrinking, by stepping over the mess, by making myself small enough not to knock over the precarious towers of garbage that constituted my parents' lives.
I didn't shrink anymore.
I stood in the center of the living room, checking the time on my watch. 4:25 PM.
I had spent the last hour clearing a shelf in the bathroom and emptying two drawers in the guest room dresser. It felt like an amputation. The empty space looked wrong, gaping at me like a wound.
I was letting chaos into the sanctuary.
It’s a job, Max, I reminded myself. It’s a transaction. You endure the girl, you get the letter, you get the NHL.
I walked to the kitchen island and picked up a glass of water. I took a sip, the water cold and clean. I set the glass down. It left a faint ring of condensation on the granite. I immediately wiped it away with a cloth.
The buzzer on the wall rang. A harsh, electronic bleat that shattered the quiet.
4:30 PM. On the dot.
I pressed the button to unlock the downstairs door, then waited. I didn't go down to help her. If she brought more than she could carry, that was a lesson in logistics she needed to learn.
Three minutes later, the elevator doors slid open directly into my foyer.
Imogen Sterling stepped out.
And immediately, the apartment felt smaller.
She was wearing oversized sunglasses, despite being indoors, and a coat that looked like it was made from the pelt of a very expensive, very soft animal.
She was dragging two massive pink suitcases behind her, a Louis Vuitton duffle bag slung over one shoulder, and carrying a potted orchid in her free hand.
She stopped, looking around the apartment. She lowered her sunglasses, her hazel eyes scanning the grey walls, the black furniture, the utter lack of warmth.
"Wow," she said, her voice flat. "It looks like a serial killer lives here. A very neat, very wealthy serial killer."
"It’s called minimalism, Imogen," I said, leaning back against the kitchen island, crossing my arms. "You should try it sometime. It clears the mind."
"It clears the soul," she countered, kicking the door shut behind her with a booted heel. She dropped the duffle bag on the floor. It landed with a heavy thud.
I flinched internally.
"Where do I put the plant?" she asked, holding up the orchid. "It needs sunlight and positive affirmations. I don't think it’s going to survive in this... bat cave."
"Put it on the counter," I commanded. "Then take your bags to the second door on the left. That’s your room."
She stared at me. She didn't move. She was testing the fence, looking for the voltage.
"Aren't you going to help me?" she asked, batting her eyelashes. "My arms are so tired. These bags are heavy."
"I didn't pack them," I said simply. "You did. You carry them."
Her jaw tightened. The brat mask slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing the annoyance underneath. Good. I didn't want the performance; I wanted the reality.
She huffed, a sharp exhale of breath, and dragged the suitcases toward the hallway. The wheels clattered loudly on the concrete. The sound grated on my nerves like a dentist's drill.
"This mattress better not be made of concrete," she called out from the hallway.
"Memory foam," I replied. "Don't get comfortable. You have ten minutes to unpack."
She poked her head back out of the room. "Why? Is there a fire drill?"
"No," I said, checking my watch again. "Your brother just texted me. The team is gathering at The Hive. Apparently, your 'exile' has become public knowledge, and Leo wants to make sure I haven't locked you in a dungeon yet."
Imogen’s face changed. The annoyance vanished, replaced by a sudden, frantic energy.
"A party?" She straightened up, smoothing her hair. "I need to change."
"You look fine," I said. She looked better than fine. She looked like trouble wrapped in cashmere.
"I look like a widow attending a funeral for a husband she didn't like," she snapped. "Give me twenty minutes."
"Ten," I said.
"Fifteen."
"Ten, Imogen. Or I leave you here."
She narrowed her eyes at me. "You wouldn't. My dad said you have to watch me."
I pushed off the counter and walked toward her. I moved slowly, deliberately, letting my height do the work. I stopped a foot away from her, invading her personal space just enough to make her look up.
"The deal is that I ensure you survive and graduate," I said, my voice low. "It doesn't say I have to be your chauffeur. If you aren't ready in ten minutes, I go to the house, and you stay here and study. Your choice."
We held the stare. A silent battle of wills. I could smell her perfume—peonies and something sharper, like citrus. It was intoxicating. It was annoying.
"Fine," she hissed.
She slammed the bedroom door in my face.
I stared at the wood grain, listening to the frantic sound of zippers opening and hangers clattering.
I exhaled slowly.
Ten weeks to graduation. Just ten weeks.
I walked back to the kitchen and wiped the counter where she had set the plant. There was a speck of dirt. I flicked it into the sink.
The Hive was vibrating.
You could feel the bass line of the music halfway down the block. It was a low, thumping heartbeat that shook the snow off the roof. The house itself was a monstrosity—three stories of peeling paint and bad decisions.
I parked my truck in the driveway, boxing in Jinx’s Jeep.
Imogen sat in the passenger seat. She had used her ten minutes effectively.
She had changed into black leather pants that fit like a second skin and a crimson bodysuit with a neckline that plunged dangerously low. She had applied a layer of dark lipstick that made her mouth look like a bruised fruit.
She looked expensive. She looked dangerous. She looked like she didn't belong anywhere near a house that smelled like stale keg beer.
"Rules of engagement," I said, killing the engine. The silence in the cab was heavy.
She looked over at me, raising an eyebrow. "We're at a party, Max. Not a war zone."
"With this team, there's no difference," I said. "Rule one: You stick with me. I'm not chasing you through the house."
"Leash laws? Kinky."
I ignored her. "Rule two: Two drink maximum. You have an 8:00 AM class tomorrow."
"I'm dropping that class," she waved a hand dismissively.
"You're not," I said. "And Rule three: Do not engage with the freshmen. They’re idiots, and they will try to sleep with you to get to your dad or to piss off your brother."
She laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Bold of you to assume I want to sleep with anyone who uses a mattress on the floor."
"Just stay close," I muttered.
We got out of the truck. The cold air hit us, but the heat emanating from the house was palpable when I opened the front door.
The noise washed over us. It was a wall of sound—rap music, shouting, the clatter of beer pong cups. The air was thick, humid with body heat and the smell of cheap alcohol.
Imogen didn't flinch. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and stepped into the chaos like she owned it.
"Imogen!"
The shout came from the living room. Leo Sterling, our Captain, was standing on the coffee table, holding a red solo cup. He jumped down, pushing through a crowd of puck bunnies to get to us.
"You're alive," Leo said, pulling her into a hug. He glared over her shoulder at me. "He treatin' you okay? No torture devices?"
"Not yet," Imogen said, pulling back and smoothing her top. "But the night is young, and his apartment is very... dungeon-chic."
Leo laughed, clapping me on the shoulder. "Good to see you, Warden. Thanks for taking the bullet. Dad was gonna ship her to a convent in Switzerland."
"Switzerland has excellent chocolate," Imogen mused, scanning the room. "This place just has... mold."
"Hey! That is historic mold!" Jinx appeared, sliding into the conversation with a lopsided grin. He was wearing a toga made of a bedsheet. It was September. "Immy! You look devastating. Is that leather? Are we doing a Matrix thing? Because I will take the red pill. I will take all the pills."
"Down, Jinx," I said, my voice cutting through the noise.
Jinx winked at Imogen. "He's so protective. It’s cute. Like a big, angry guard dog."
Imogen smiled at him. It was the smile she used for the cameras—dazzling, practiced, and completely empty. "Hi, Carter. Nice sheet. Is it high thread count?"
"Only the best for the Dean's daughter," Jinx grinned, stepping closer. Too close. He reached out to touch the material of her sleeve. "Seriously, this is—"
I caught his wrist before he made contact.
I didn't squeeze. I didn't have to. I just held his arm in mid-air, creating a barrier between his hand and her body.
Jinx looked at my hand, then up at my face. He saw the look in my eyes. The flat, dead stare that I used when a forward was trying to screen me in the crease.
"Personal space, Jinx," I said calmly.
"Right," Jinx laughed nervously, pulling his hand back. "Right. Personal space. Got it."
He scurried away toward the keg.
I felt Imogen’s eyes on me. I turned to look at her. She wasn't looking at Jinx. She was looking at my hand, which was now hanging by my side. Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the hazel. Her chest rose and fell in a slightly erratic rhythm.
She liked that.