Stuck with My Rival’s Ex

Chapter 1

Rent Due, Patience Overdue

Sage

The restaurant hums. Air thick with exhaustion and spice, it buzzes with that specific kind of exhaustion that only comes after midnight—half laughter, half regret.

I’m still wiping down the marble bar at élan while the last of the regulars linger over their credit card slips.

Designer suits. Athletes in tailored jackets.

Rolexes glinting as they toss back one last round of top-shelf whiskey.

I smile the way a tired waitress does—automatic, polite—but inside, my brain is just a calculator with anxiety issues. Every laugh they share costs more than I make in an hour. Every bottle they open could cover my electric bill for the month.

“Night, Sage,” Marco calls from the kitchen door, untying his apron. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his grin’s half sympathy, half teasing.

“Night,” I say, even though I’m not leaving yet. Someone has to finish closing. Someone always has to.

The smell of lemon and charred rosemary clings to the air. My feet ache in my sensible flats, and when I finally switch off the pendant lights, the sudden quiet hits like relief and loneliness in equal measure.

Outside, the valet whistles for another black SUV. A group of Surge hockey players pile in—recognizable even out of uniform. Laughing. Carefree. Not a thought about rent or groceries.

I lean against the locked glass door, watching taillights disappear down the boulevard, and tell myself I’m not jealous. I’m just tired. Bone-deep, budget-spreadsheet, dream-still-on-life-support tired.

Buzz. My phone vibrates against the counter. Another rent reminder from the management portal. Seven. Thousand. Dollars. I could recite the number in my sleep. I can cover half—barely. The other half used to belong to my roommate before she bailed for a fiancé with a view in La Jolla. Lucky her.

I blow out a breath and grab my bag, my reflection ghosting back from the dark glass. Hair escaping its braid. Eyes smudged with the day. “You’re fine,” I mutter to myself. “You’ll figure it out.”

But as I lock up and step into the cool night air, the truth hums under my skin: I don’t know how much longer I can keep treading water before something gives.

When I reach my car, I glance back at élan’s glowing sign. The people inside have lives that glide—smooth, seamless, expensive. Mine’s all sharp edges and duct tape.

Still, as I start the engine, I catch myself smiling faintly. Tomorrow I’ll open the kitchen in my apartment, test another batch of lemon-turmeric broth, and keep chasing the dream that’s mine alone.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from cooking for the rich—it’s that taste can’t be bought. But survival? That’s always on special.

By the time I get home, my bones hum with fatigue.

The apartment greets me with the faint smell of rosemary and burnt toast—leftovers from a catering test batch that went sideways yesterday.

My shoes come off at the door, landing beside the pile of unopened mail that’s starting to look like modern art.

I toss my keys into the bowl and grab the envelope I’ve been avoiding all week.

My lease renewal. The number on the page hasn’t changed—$7,000—but somehow it feels heavier tonight.

I trace it with my fingertip like maybe I misread a zero somewhere.

Nope. Seven grand. My half is survivable.

The other half—the half my ex-roommate used to pay—is the kind of hole no side hustle can patch.

The silence presses in until I can hear my own heartbeat. My stomach growls, loud and indignant. I ignore it and head for the kitchen.

Wine first, logic later.

I pull out a bottle of cheap rosé, pour a generous glass, and sink into the couch. My phone buzzes before the first sip. Maya’s face lights up the screen, all curls and chaos.

“Tell me you’re home and not still polishing silverware for tips,” she says instead of hello.

“Home,” I sigh, stretching my legs out. “Barely. My soul’s still mopping the floor at élan.”

She grins. “You love that fancy place.”

“I love parts of it,” I admit. “The food, the chaos, the high of service. I don’t love the rent that comes with pretending I belong to that world.”

Her eyes gleam with mischief. “Half the Surge roster eats at élan. Don’t tell me none of them tried to get your number.”

I roll my eyes and take a sip. “Some did. A few left digits on receipts, a couple offered cars to ‘impress me.’ Like that’s supposed to make me weak in the knees.”

Maya cackles. “So maybe your rent problem has a solution with skates and a jawline.”

I arch a brow. “No athletes. No exceptions.”

“Oh, come on. You could at least let one of them buy you dinner. It’s called market research.”

I laugh, but it’s brittle. “You forget—Grayson cured me of that type. Permanently.”

Maya sobers immediately, guilt flashing across her face. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I swirl my wine, forcing a shrug. “He just taught me a line I should’ve learned sooner.”

“What’s that?”

“‘No athletes. No distractions. Not again.’” The words come out like muscle memory—sharp, practiced, necessary.

Maya studies me for a beat, then nods slowly. “You’re stronger now, Sage.”

“Stronger,” I echo softly, staring at the catering gear gleaming through the cracked door of my second bedroom. The sheet pans, the mixer, the lined-up jars of turmeric and cardamom—those are my real investment. Not love. Not men with ice skates and bad timing.

The clock ticks past one. Maya yawns, promising brunch plans we both know we’ll cancel, and hangs up.

I linger in the quiet a moment longer, finishing my wine. The lease sits on the coffee table, taunting me. My pulse keeps whispering the same refrain: Find a way. Keep moving. Don’t fall back.

When I finally drag myself to bed, I set the lease aside and mutter under my breath, like a vow: “No athletes. No distractions. Not again.”

Outside, the city hums on, unaware that my world’s about to collide with exactly the kind of distraction I swore off for good.

Morning blurs in through the blinds, too bright for how little sleep I got. I shuffle toward the kitchen, hair a tangled mess, still half-dreaming about unpaid bills. The city outside hums awake—honking horns, the faint screech of gulls from the bay.

The apartment feels both too big and too small at once.

My catering studio takes up the second bedroom, every counter gleaming from last night’s late-night cleaning spree.

It’s organized chaos—sacks of flour stacked beside labeled jars of spices, sheet pans lined like soldiers. My future, measured in stainless steel.

I make coffee strong enough to wake the dead and check my bank app like it might have changed overnight. Spoiler: it hasn’t. Numbers glare back at me—disappointing and unbudging.

The intercom buzzes suddenly, sharp and jarring. I nearly spill my mug. “Seriously?” I mutter, padding over to the panel.

“Miss Winslow,” Mrs. Patel’s clipped voice crackles through. “Good morning. I believe we’ve solved your problem.”

My pulse jumps. “My—what problem?”

“The vacancy. Temporary placement, just as we discussed. He’ll be up in a moment.”

“Wait, what vacancy? Mrs. Patel, I didn’t—” But the line clicks dead.

I stare at the panel like it personally betrayed me. A heartbeat later, a knock rattles the door.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

I glance around the apartment—wine glass still on the coffee table, couch blanket askew, a pile of mail half-open on the counter. Perfect.

When I open the door, the hallway light hits like a spotlight. Standing there, framed in it, is six feet of broad shoulders, duffel bag, and trouble.

Leo Voss.

He’s dressed down—gray hoodie, joggers, baseball cap pulled low—but it doesn’t disguise the face I’ve seen a dozen times at élan. The one that barely looks up from his meal while teammates flirt with the servers. The one that seems carved from quiet control.

He glances toward Mrs. Patel disappearing down the hall, then mutters, “Temporary roommate.” mutters, voice low, gravel-smooth. His eyes flick toward Mrs. Patel’s retreating form at the end of the hall.

I blink, completely thrown. “Roommate?”

“Pipe burst in my unit,” he says, like this is the most normal situation in the world. “She said this was available.”

“It’s not,” I blurt automatically. “I mean, it wasn’t—this isn’t—”

He adjusts the strap on his bag, expression unreadable. “Look, if it’s a problem, I’ll talk to her again. I just need a place for a few weeks.”

A few weeks. My heartbeat skitters. The logical part of my brain screams no. The other part—the one still staring at that rent notice—whispers you could survive this month.

Leo glances past me into the apartment. “You sure? She said you needed the help.”

Ouch.

I cross my arms, trying to summon my backbone. “This isn’t exactly a bachelor pad.”

He gives a faint shrug. “Don’t need one.”

The silence stretches, taut as fishing line. His gaze is steady but not invasive, his presence filling the doorway like gravity. I hate that my pulse reacts before my brain catches up.

Finally, I step aside just enough for him to pass. “Fine. Temporary. Don’t touch my knives.”

He lifts one brow. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, my stomach drops.

Temporary roommate.

Famous hockey player.

Walking reminder of everything I swore off.

Fantastic.

The air in the apartment feels different the second Leo steps inside—too full, like it’s suddenly inhaled someone else’s oxygen. He doesn’t say much, just surveys the space in that quiet, assessing way I’ve seen him study his meals at élan.

He drops his duffel beside the couch. The sound feels final.

“Nice place,” he says after a pause, eyes flicking toward the kitchen. “Smells like… lemon?”

I stiffen, caught off guard. “Turmeric-lemon syrup. For recovery drinks.”

His brow ticks up a fraction. “Recovery drinks?”