CHAPTER FIVE
ENEMY TERRITORY
Elise
Crestmont looks like money.
Old money. The trust fund, country club, never-had-to-work-for-anything variety.
Brick buildings with ivy crawling up the sides. Manicured lawns that probably cost more to maintain than my entire tuition. Students in Lululemon and North Face jackets, even though it’s still mild September weather.
I walk across campus in my Target jeans and secondhand jacket, feeling every dollar of the difference.
Advanced anatomy is in the science building, third floor, room 304.
I’m ten minutes early because that’s what you do when you’re on scholarship and can’t afford to mess up. Getting into Johns Hopkins depends on grades so perfect they hurt.
The lab smells like formaldehyde and ambition. Twenty stations with cadavers covered in white sheets, each set up for two students.
I pick one near the back, unpack my laptop and fresh notebook, and try to look like I belong here.
The room fills slowly. Students gather in groups, laughing and comparing schedules. Nobody sits next to me.
Then the hockey team walks in.
Six of them, in letterman jackets with an entitled swagger. They take over the front two rows like they own the place.
Maybe they do.
One of them—tall, dark hair, and a smirk that probably works on sorority girls—looks back and spots me. He elbows his friend, and they both stare.
Great.
The professor walks in. Dr. Richardson. Fifty-something, gray hair, zero patience for BS according to RateMyProfessor.
“Partner assignments are random.” She’s already pulling up a spreadsheet. “I’ll call names. Sit with your partner. You’re stuck with them all semester.”
My stomach drops.
Please, not a hockey player. Please not—
“Elise Hart and Bryce Montgomery.”
Fuck.
Bryce is the one who smirked at me. He’s grinning now as he slides into the seat next to mine, bringing the smell of expensive cologne and entitlement with him.
“Well, well.” He sets his bag down, taking up more space than necessary. “Lucky me.”
I don’t respond. I open my laptop and pretend he’s not there.
“So.” He leans closer. Too close. “You know Grant Wilder personally?”
The emphasis on “personally” makes my skin crawl.
“We’ve met.” I keep my voice flat and bored.
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Then you heard wrong.”
“Did I?” His grin widens. “Because word is you two have history. The interesting kind.”
My jaw tightens. “Word is wrong.”
“Sure it is.” He stretches, his arm coming dangerously close to my side of the desk. “Must be weird, though. Living with your ex.”
“He’s not my ex.”
“No? What would you call him, then?”
“My brother’s friend. My roommate. None of your business.”
Dr. Richardson starts lecturing, but Bryce doesn’t shut up.
“Grant’s a legend, you know.” He’s whispering now, forcing me to lean in to hear. “On and off the ice. Girls can’t get enough.”
I pull back, focusing on my notes, trying to tune him out.
He doesn’t take the hint.
“He never dates the same girl twice, though. Has this whole thing about not getting attached.” Bryce is watching my face, looking for a reaction. “Smart guy.”
My pen digs into the paper, the letter ‘A’ I’m writing turning into a gouge.
“You know what they say about him?” Bryce’s voice drops lower—intimate, gross. “Best fuck on campus. Doesn’t do feelings, but he’ll make you forget your name.”
My stomach turns. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. It’s been two years.
But hearing it laid out like that—Grant’s reputation, his revolving door, the way he’s apparently legendary for being emotionally unavailable—hits differently than I want it to.
“Are you done?” I don’t look at him.
“Just making conversation.”
“Make it with someone else.”
“Aw, come on.” He nudges my arm with his elbow. I flinch away. “We’re partners. We should get to know each other.”
“We should pay attention to the lecture.”
“I can multitask.”
“I can’t. And I’m here to learn, not gossip about my roommate’s sex life.”
Something flickers in his expression—satisfaction, like I’ve just confirmed something he wanted to know.
He leans back, finally giving me space.
But I can feel him watching me for the rest of class, cataloging every reaction. Probably texting Grant the moment we’re dismissed.
Lunch is worse.
The dining hall is massive—high ceilings, long tables, floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light. It’s set up like a cafeteria but feels more like a country club.
I grab a salad and coffee because it’s cheap and filling, then find an empty table near the windows.
Five minutes in, a group of girls sits at the table behind me.
They’re loud and confident—the type who’ve never worried about money, belonging, or anything more serious than which fraternity has the best parties.
I’m trying to ignore them. Really trying.
Then I hear his name.
“Grant Wilder is so fucking hot.” The voice is high and excited. “Did you see him at practice yesterday?”
“Please. I see him everywhere. The man looks good doing literally anything.”
“I hooked up with him last year.” A third voice, smug. “Best night of my life.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth.
Don’t listen. Don’t care. None of your business.
“What’s he like?” The first girl again, hungry for details.
“Intense. He doesn’t talk much, but he knows things—” She makes a noise that’s half moan, half laugh. “Let’s just say the rumors are true.”
“Which rumors?”
“All of them.”
They dissolve into giggles. I force myself to take a bite of salad. It tastes like cardboard.
“He never calls, though.” The smug one again, less smug now. “We hooked up; it was incredible, and then nothing. He acted like I didn’t exist.”
“That’s his thing,” another girl says. “He doesn’t do relationships. Someone told me it’s because his twin died and he’s all emotionally damaged or whatever.”
My hand clenches around my fork.
“That’s kind of hot, though. The whole brooding, emotionally unavailable thing.”
“Until you catch feelings. Then it sucks.”
“Did you catch feelings?”
A pause. “Maybe. A little bit.”
“Girl, no. Grant Wilder is for fun, not feelings. Everyone knows that.”
I stand up. My chair scrapes loudly against the floor. Several people look over.
I don’t care.
I dump my barely-touched salad in the trash, leave my coffee on the table, and walk out before I do something stupid, like turn around and tell those girls that Grant Wilder used to be capable of feelings.
That he kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him alive.
That the emotionally unavailable thing is a choice, not a personality trait.
But I don’t say any of that.
Because it doesn’t matter. Because two years is a long time. Because maybe the Grant I kissed at that bonfire is gone, replaced by the legend those girls are discussing.
And I don’t get to be sad about it.
By the time I get back to the townhouse, my jaw aches from clenching it all day.
I pull into the parking lot and head toward my assigned spot.
Someone’s already in it.
A truck. Lifted. Obnoxious. With a Crestmont hockey decal in the back window.
I sit in my idling car and stare at it.
They took my spot.
I park in visitor parking, three blocks away, and hike back to the townhouse with my backpack digging into my shoulders.
The walk gives me time to think.
Grant wants to make my life difficult? His teammates want to follow his lead?
Fine.
Two can play this game.
And I play to win.
The house is empty when I get back. Tuesday afternoon means practice until six.
Perfect.
I drop my bag in my room and stand there for a second, plotting.
If they want to treat me like an inconvenience, a problem to be dealt with, then I’m going to be the most inconvenient problem they’ve ever encountered.
But I’m going to have fun with it.
I pull open my dresser drawer and locate my nicest underwear: the lace ones, the thongs—the ones I bought because they make me feel confident, even if no one else sees them.
Well.
Someone’s about to see them.
I head to the laundry room, a cramped space off the kitchen with a washer, dryer, and absolutely no privacy.
I set all the underwear on top of the dryer, where they’ll be impossible to miss.
Then I go back to my room and dig through my nightstand.
My vibrator is sleek, purple, and expensive because I believe in investing in quality.
I take it to the bathroom.
I place it on the counter, right next to the toothbrush holder.
Not hidden. Not subtle.
Just sitting there like it belongs.
Because it does.
I step back and admire my work.
If they want to make me uncomfortable, fine. But discomfort goes both ways.
Let’s see how the hockey team handles living with a woman who refuses to be ashamed of her body or her needs.
I’m in my room studying when I hear the front door slam.
Voices. Multiple.
Jordie’s laugh, Wyatt’s lower rumble, Grant’s clipped responses.
They’re home.
I turn my music up, pretend I can’t hear them, and wait.
It takes seven minutes.
Then I hear it.
“What the fuck?”
Grant’s voice, coming from the bathroom.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling.
“Dude,” Jordie says now. “Is that—?”
“Yeah.” Grant sounds strangled. “It is.”
“Should we, uh—”
“Leave it.” Grant’s voice is tight, controlled. “Just leave it.”
Footsteps. Fast. Someone’s retreating.
I count to ten, then open my door and wander down the hall as if I have no idea what just happened.
The bathroom door is open, and it’s empty.
My vibrator is exactly where I left it.
But I can sense their awareness of it—the way that small purple object has shifted something in the house.
Good.
I head downstairs for water. The three of them are in the kitchen.
Wyatt is at the table, pretending to look at his phone, but his jaw is tight. Jordie is at the counter, his golden boy grin slightly strained. Grant has his back to me, gripping the edge of the sink.
“Hey.” I keep my voice light and casual. “How was practice?”
“Fine.” Grant doesn’t turn around.
Jordie clears his throat. “Good. It was, uh… good.”