The Billet Sister
Everyone called me his billet sister.
I hated the term.
Not because I disliked him. That would have made the entire situation much easier.
We weren’t related. We hadn’t grown up together. I hadn’t known he existed until August, when my parents agreed to host a player from our town’s junior hockey team.
That was how billeting worked. Most of the players were teenagers living hundreds or even thousands of miles from home, too young to rent apartments by themselves and too old to be supervised like children.
Families in the community gave them bedrooms, fed them and tried to make the season feel less lonely.
My parents had done it twice before.
The first player barely spoke and spent every free moment playing video games with a headset on. The second had been traded six weeks into the season and left behind three unmatched socks and a jar of peanut butter in his nightstand.
Then there was him.
Nineteen years old and drafted by a pro team the previous summer.
He arrived with two enormous hockey bags, one suitcase and an apologetic smile that my mother immediately fell for.
Within a week, he knew how she took her coffee.
Within two, he was helping my father rake leaves without being asked.
Within a month, he had a designated place at the kitchen table and a standing Sunday-night argument with my dad over which hockey teams were overrated.
He fit into our house far too easily.
I was nineteen too, home for a year while I figured out whether I wanted to return to college or change programs. That meant I had the bedroom across the hall from his, shared a bathroom with him and saw him nearly every day.
None of that made us siblings. At first, we barely interacted.
His schedule was ridiculous. Morning classes at the rink, practice in the afternoon, games on weekends and team events squeezed into whatever remained. He came home exhausted, ate enough food for three people and disappeared into his room.
I worked afternoons at a bookstore and spent evenings trying not to answer questions about my future.
We passed each other in the hallway. It was ordinary.
Then winter came.
The team started winning. I started going to games with my parents, not because I suddenly cared about junior hockey but because watching him had become difficult to resist.
At home, he was funny and slightly awkward, constantly bumping his shoulders into doorframes and apologizing when he finished the milk.
On the ice, he was different. He was more confident. Physical. He was mean in a way that didn’t seem to belong to the boy who carried grocery bags for my mother.
The first time he got into a fight, I stood in the crowd with my hand over my mouth while he traded punches with another player against the boards.
He won.
Afterward, he looked toward our section.
Not at my parents.
At me.
By Christmas, the flirting had started.
Nothing obvious.
A hand at my waist when he squeezed behind me in the kitchen.
A compliment when I wore something other than leggings and one of my father’s sweatshirts.
The way he always took the seat beside me during family movie nights, even when the rest of the couch was empty.
Once, I caught him coming out of the bathroom after a shower with a towel low around his hips.
He stopped.
I stopped.
We had both seen people in towels before.
Still, something changed.
His eyes moved over my face as if he were waiting to see what I would do.
I looked at his chest longer than I should have.
He smiled.
We never talked about it.
Maybe because the phrase billet sister hung over everything, even though it meant nothing beyond the fact that he slept under my parents’ roof and my mother occasionally packed him snacks for road trips.
My parents trusted him.
They trusted me.
They definitely trusted us together.
That was why, on a snowy afternoon in January, they left us alone.
My mother wanted to visit my aunt before the roads worsened. My father agreed to drive because he didn’t trust her tires. They planned to be gone for a few hours.
The player had the day off after returning from a road trip at three in the morning.
I had nowhere to be.
My mother stood in the foyer pulling on her boots.
“There’s soup in the fridge,” she said. “And pizza money on the table if you want.”
My father opened the front door.
Cold air swept into the house.
“We’ll be back before dinner.”
“Drive safe,” I said.
The player leaned over the back of the couch.
“We’ll try not to burn the place down.”
“That wasn’t a concern until you said it,” my father replied.
Then they were gone.
He remained draped over the couch, wearing gray sweatpants and a faded team T-shirt. His hair was still disordered from sleep.
I walked into the living room.
He had already opened the streaming menu on the TV.
“What do you want?”
“Not hockey.”
He looked offended.
“I was going to suggest Miracle,” he said.
“That is hockey.”
“It’s cinema.”
“It’s men yelling about the Cold War while skating in circles.”
He placed one hand over his chest.
“You’ve wounded me.”
“You weren’t alive when it happened.”
“Neither were you.”
I dropped onto the opposite end of the couch.
“Put it on.”
His smile made me regret agreeing.
He started the movie.
For the first twenty minutes, we stayed at opposite ends of the couch.
The living room was warm, almost too warm, with snow collecting against the windows and the fireplace glowing beneath the television. I pulled a blanket over my legs.
Then he stretched his legs across the couch until his socked feet touched my thigh.
I pushed them away.
He put them back.
“Move.”
“I’m sore.”
“Then sit normally.”
“I played three games in four nights.”
“That sounds like poor scheduling.”
“My legs need elevation.”
He shifted again, sliding closer instead of moving his feet.
Now his knee pressed against mine beneath the blanket.
I looked down.
He looked at the television.
“You have an entire couch,” I said.
“So do you.”
“You’re in my space.”
“You moved the blanket over me.”
I hadn’t noticed that I had.
The fleece covered both our legs now, creating a warm pocket between us.
I should have taken it back.
Instead, I left it.
Onscreen, the team began another dramatic practice montage.
He groaned.
“What now?”
“No coach would say that.”
“You say that about every line.”
“My coaches would laugh at this.”
“My father likes this movie.”
“Your father also thinks I should shoot more.”
“You should.”
His head turned.
“What?”
“I have eyes.”
“You know whether I shoot enough?”
“You pass when you should shoot because you’re afraid of missing.”
He stared at me.
It was something I had noticed from the stands, watching him look for the perfect play instead of taking the obvious one.
His expression shifted.
“You really do watch me.”
The room felt suddenly warmer.
I kept my attention on the television.
“Sometimes.”
His knee moved against mine.
“Why?”
“Because you live here.”
“That doesn’t answer it.”
“You’re on the hometown team.”
“Still not an answer.”
I glanced at him.
He was closer than I had realized.
One arm stretched along the back of the couch behind me. His face was turned toward mine, his earlier teasing replaced by a focus that made my pulse jump.
“Maybe I like watching you,” I said.
He broke into a grin.
“You flirt like you’re trying to start a fight.”
“Maybe I am.”
“I’d win.”
“You say that because you have seven inches and fifty pounds on me and you hit people for a living.”
“Not for a living yet.”
“Close enough.”
He leaned closer.
“Think I’m too rough?”
My breath caught. The line could still have been a joke. The way he said it wasn’t.
I swallowed.
“I think you like people believing you are.”
His gaze held mine.
“And you don’t?”
“I’ve seen you cry at dog food commercials.”
“That dog was old.”
“You called your mother after.”
“I wanted to check on our dog.”
The tension should have broken.
It didn’t.
His fingers touched the ends of my hair where it fell over my shoulder. The kind of touch that could still become nothing if either of us wanted it to.
He kissed me before I could reconsider.
The first contact was softer than I expected.
For all the flirting and tension, he kissed me carefully, his hand cupping my face as though he thought I might disappear if he moved too quickly.
I pulled him closer.
That ended the careful part.
His mouth opened against mine. His other hand found my waist beneath the blanket, drawing me across the couch until my thigh pressed over his.
I had imagined kissing him.
Usually after games, when he came home with damp hair and bruises forming along his jaw. Or late at night when we stood beside each other in the kitchen, both pretending we had come downstairs for water.
Reality was messier.
His body was solid beneath my hands, his mouth less confident than his flirting and more eager than I expected.
He pulled back slightly.
“Your parents—”
“Won’t be back for hours.”
“You sure?”
“They’re driving through snow to my aunt’s house.”
“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“They’ll text.”
His eyes moved over my face.
“We shouldn’t do this.”
“No.”
“We live together.”
“Yes.”
“Your parents are going to kill me.”
“Probably.”
His thumb brushed my lower lip.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because you’re still holding me.”
He looked down.
Both hands were at my waist.
He didn’t move them.
“I’m trying to make a responsible decision.”
“You’re doing badly.”
He kissed me again.
This time, he shifted fully over me.
My back met the couch cushions. The movie continued behind him, forgotten, its music swelling while he settled between my legs.
His mouth moved to my neck as I slid my hands beneath his shirt.
His skin was hot, stomach tightening beneath my fingertips as I pushed the fabric upward. He sat back long enough to pull it over his head.
I stared.
I had seen him without a shirt before.
Across the hallway.
In passing.
Never close enough to touch.
Bruises marked his ribs in fading shades of yellow and purple. A thin red line crossed one shoulder from where his equipment had rubbed during the road trip.
I traced it with one finger.
He watched me.
“Does that hurt?”
“Not that.”
“What does?”