The Flirt Rule (Lakeview State Hockey Romance #2)

Chapter One — Tessa

Chapter One

Tessa

The first time Rhett Callahan flirted with me, I was holding a fire extinguisher.

The second time, he was the reason I needed it.

“Don’t panic,” he said, standing in the middle of the student union kitchen while smoke curled toward the ceiling behind him.

“I’m not panicking.”

“You’re pointing that thing at my chest.”

“Because you’re between me and the fire.”

“It’s a very small fire.”

The flames jumped higher from the industrial toaster.

Rhett glanced over his shoulder.

“Moderately small.”

I pulled the pin.

His eyes widened. “Tessa.”

“Move.”

“Tessa, let’s approach this calmly.”

“I am calm.”

“You have the expression of a woman who’s been waiting her whole life to legally spray me with chemicals.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

He smiled.

It was the smile.

The one that appeared in half the photos on Lakeview State’s athletics page and most of the regrettable decisions made by women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four.

Easy.

Confident.

Completely certain it would work.

I squeezed the handle.

A white cloud exploded across the kitchen.

Rhett dove sideways.

The toaster fire vanished beneath a layer of foam. So did half the counter. And Rhett’s left shoulder.

For one perfect second, the room went silent.

Then the fire alarm started screaming.

Rhett looked down at himself.

I lowered the extinguisher.

“You moved too slowly.”

He brushed white powder from the black Lakeview hockey sweatshirt stretched across his chest. “You shot me.”

“I saved the building.”

“You enjoyed it.”

“I enjoyed saving the building.”

His grin widened. “That’s not what your face said.”

“My face was focused.”

“Your face was delighted.”

The kitchen doors burst open.

My roommate, Paige, rushed in carrying three poster boards and a roll of silver streamers.

She stopped.

Her gaze moved from me, to the extinguisher, to Rhett, to the dead toaster.

“I was gone for four minutes.”

“Five,” Rhett said.

Paige stared at him. “Why are you covered in fire extinguisher?”

“Tessa has very aggressive conflict-resolution skills.”

I set the extinguisher on the counter. “He put a foil-wrapped breakfast sandwich in the toaster.”

“I didn’t know it was foil.”

“It was shiny.”

“I thought that was part of the packaging design.”

“You thought the metal wrapper was decorative?”

“I’m an athlete, not an engineer.”

“You don’t need an engineering degree to recognize aluminum.”

The alarm continued shrieking overhead.

Paige dropped the streamers onto the table. “Please tell me the sprinklers aren’t about to go off.”

Rhett glanced toward the ceiling.

A second later, water poured down.

Paige closed her eyes.

I looked at Rhett.

He pushed wet hair away from his forehead and gave me that same impossible smile.

“Good news,” he said. “The fire is definitely out.”

I should have hated him.

It would have made the next ten minutes much easier.

Instead, I noticed the water running along the sharp line of his jaw.

Which was irritating.

Because Rhett Callahan was exactly the kind of man I had trained myself not to notice.

Popular.

Charming.

A little too comfortable taking up space.

He was a junior winger for the Lakeview State Wolves, a campus celebrity in the specific, ridiculous way college athletes became celebrities when they were handsome and capable of skating into another human being at thirty miles per hour.

He had dark hair, a smile designed to lower standards, and a reputation built almost entirely on being fun.

Fun at parties.

Fun in interviews.

Fun for one night, according to at least three women in my economics class.

I preferred reliable.

Quiet.

Men who did not start kitchen fires before nine in the morning.

Rhett wiped water from his face. “You’re staring.”

“I’m calculating damages.”

“To the kitchen?”

“To society.”

Paige made a choking sound that might have been a laugh.

Rhett pressed a hand to his chest. “That hurt.”

“You’ll recover.”

“I don’t know. I’m sensitive.”

“No, you’re damp.”

The kitchen doors opened again.

This time, Dean Walsh stepped inside.

He was followed by two campus security officers, the student union manager, and Coach Mercer.

Every molecule of humor left Rhett’s face.

Coach Mercer was not tall, but he had the kind of stillness that made taller men reconsider their life choices.

His gaze moved over the room.

The toaster.

The foam.

The water.

Rhett.

Then me.

“Callahan.”

Rhett straightened. “Coach.”

“Explain.”

Rhett opened his mouth.

I folded my arms.

Paige whispered, “This should be good.”

“It was a breakfast-related misunderstanding,” Rhett said.

Coach Mercer looked at the burned toaster.

“You put metal in it.”

“In hindsight.”

“Tessa warned him,” I said.

Rhett turned toward me. “You did?”

“I told you not to touch anything.”

“That was more of a general statement.”

“It was still accurate.”

Dean Walsh pinched the bridge of his nose. “The student union opens for Family Weekend in less than forty-eight hours.”

Paige and I both went still.

The kitchen was the staging area for the entire student activities showcase. Our committee had spent six weeks planning it. Dozens of student groups were supposed to set up displays, demonstrations, and food stations in this building.

Now water dripped from the ceiling onto the hand-painted campus map Paige had finished at two in the morning.

Dean Walsh looked at the ruined decorations.

Then at me.

“Ms. Monroe, you’re the event coordinator?”

“Co-coordinator.”

Paige lifted one hand. “I’m the other co.”

“You’ll need to relocate the food portion of the event.”

My stomach dropped.

“There isn’t another approved kitchen available,” I said.

“There is one,” the student union manager said. “The athletics hospitality suite.”

Coach Mercer’s expression changed.

Barely.

But I saw it.

“No,” he said.

Dean Walsh turned to him. “It’s certified, unused this weekend, and attached to the arena.”

“It’s team space.”

“It’s university space.”

Rhett looked between them.

I already hated where this was going.

Dean Walsh folded his hands. “The hockey program caused the damage. The hockey program can help repair the event.”

Coach Mercer’s jaw tightened.

Rhett glanced at me.

I looked away before he could smile.

Dean Walsh continued. “Callahan will assist Ms. Monroe and Ms. Davis with relocating and rebuilding the showcase.”

Rhett blinked. “This weekend?”

Coach Mercer’s stare could have frozen the sprinkler water midair.

“Yes,” he said.

Rhett nodded immediately. “Absolutely.”

“You’ll provide whatever assistance they require.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll also attend the event.”

Rhett hesitated.

That was interesting.

Only for a second.

Then the smile returned.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Dean Walsh faced me. “Will that solve the immediate problem?”

No.

It created several new ones.

But the hospitality suite gave us a kitchen. Hockey had access to tables, staff, equipment, and half the resources on campus that student organizations had to beg for.

And Rhett owed me.

Deeply.

I looked at him.

He pressed both hands together beneath his chin in a silent plea.

I let him wait.

“Yes,” I finally said. “If he follows instructions.”

Rhett lowered his hands. “I’m excellent with instructions.”

“You put metal in a toaster.”

“One isolated incident shouldn’t define a man.”

“It happened four minutes ago.”

“And I’m already growing.”

Coach Mercer pointed toward the door.

“Callahan. Hallway. Now.”

Rhett followed him out, but paused beside me.

Water dripped from the end of his hair onto the floor.

“I owe you,” he said quietly.

“You owe the university a toaster.”

“I mean for not letting Coach kill me.”

“I didn’t protect you.”

“You didn’t tell them I ignored you twice.”

“Three times.”

His mouth curved.

I hated that I noticed.

“Name your price, Monroe.”

“I don’t need anything from you.”

“Everyone needs something.”

“Not from you.”

Something shifted in his expression.

Not hurt.

More like interest.

As if nobody had ever told him that before.

Then Coach Mercer barked his name from the hallway.

Rhett stepped backward.

“Offer stands.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“But it does.”

He disappeared through the doors.

Paige came up beside me.

“No.”

I looked at her. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking.”

“I was thinking about the event.”

“You were looking at his mouth.”

“I was assessing whether he could follow basic verbal commands.”

“And?”

“No evidence so far.”

She smiled.

I picked up the soaked stack of schedules from the counter.

The pages came apart in my hands.

Six weeks of planning.

Ruined decorations.

A flooded kitchen.

And one hockey player with the attention span of a golden retriever and the smile of a professional liar.

This weekend was going to be a disaster.

I just didn’t know yet that the fire was the easy part.