ummmm

He’d forgotten that Tucker’s sister had effectively moved into his guest room forty-eight hours ago. Initially, he’d allowed it out of sheer guilt after Tucker spent a week complaining about the rat-infested basements and utility-free apartments you’d been touring, but Dean had expected a quiet, grateful houseguest who would stay out of his way.

Instead, Texas had officially invaded Massachusetts.

Stepping out into the hallway, Dean stopped in his tracks. The living room, usually a sterile masterpiece of cream bouclé fabrics and marble surfaces, looked... lived in. A pair of worn-in cowboy boots was kicked off carelessly by his minimalist glass entryway table. A bright, patterned throw blanket that definitely didn't match his aesthetic was draped over his custom couch.

And there you were in the open-concept kitchen.

Dean stopped at the edge of the kitchen, his brain struggling to process the visual. You were wearing his white button-down—the ridiculous, $400 one he usually saved for board meetings. The sleeves were rolled up into messy, uneven cuffs to keep them out of the bacon grease, and it swallowed you completely, ending somewhere around your mid-thigh. It shouldn't have looked good. And it definitely shouldn't have made his chest tighten.

You were swaying your hips to Thomas Rhett, singing softly into a spatula as you flipped a pancake.

"Why is there a country music festival happening in my apartment at seven in the morning?" Dean muttered. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms and attempting to look a lot more awake than he actually was.

You spun around, not looking even remotely guilty. In fact, your face lit up with a brilliant smile. "Morning, sunshine! It's actually 7:45. And don't insult Thomas. Those speakers are finally playing something with some soul."

He stared at you, squinting slightly against a smile that was entirely too bright for seven in the morning.

"That's silk-blend," he pointed out, gesturing vaguely at the hem of the shirt. "It's dry-clean only."

"It's comfortable," you said easily, turning back to the stove to slide a mountain of fluffy, golden-brown pancakes onto a plate. "Besides, it looks better on me. Come eat. I made proper biscuits from scratch, none of that canned stuff you Northerners live on. And real bacon."

"I have a breakfast meeting at nine with a venture capitalist," Dean lied seamlessly, walking over to the island anyway. The smell was admittedly incredible. His kitchen usually only saw takeout containers and meal-prep salads.

"You can reschedule," you said, pouring him a massive mug of black coffee and sliding it across the marble countertop. "You look like you haven't eaten a carb since 2022, Di Laurentis. Sit."

Dean stared at the mug, then back at you—flushed, entirely unbothered by the fact that he was technically your landlord for the next two weeks, and you're insulting him while holding a spatula like a weapon. He let out a quiet, defeated breath that was dangerously close to a laugh, and pulled out a stool.

"If I get a grease stain on this counter, you're detailing my car," he warned, though he was already reaching for a fork.

Two hours later, Dean’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was a text from his colleague asking if he was on his way to the country club for their afternoon golf session with the firm's partners.

Dean looked at the text a second longer, then looked up at you, completely engrossed in your phone and laughing so hard your shoulders shook. The echoey silence he usually paid thousands to maintain was completely gone. He typed:

Out for today. Pipe burst at the apartment.

He hit send before he could think about how insane it was to blow off a managing partner for a plate of leftover biscuits.

"What's that look for?" you asked, glancing over at him, looking wildly out of place against his expensive couch.

"Nothing," Dean said smoothly, leaning his head back against the sofa. He didn't blink, watching you with an expression that was a lot softer than he’d care to admit to anyone. "Just wondering how long it's going to take me to get the smell of maple syrup out of my custom rugs."

"Oh, shut up," you laughed, throwing a decorative pillow straight at his head.

Dean caught it easily, a quiet, actual laugh cutting through his chest.

And for the first time since he'd bought the place, the massive apartment didn't feel completely empty.

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Dean Di Laurentis leaned against the glass like he belonged in a hockey equipment ad. Sporting a Briar hoodie with a baseball cap shoved backward. An annoyingly amused expression plastered on his face.

Up close, he looked less polished than he did in the campus photos. Tired around the eyes. Hair curling slightly from the humidity of the rink.

Still irritatingly attractive, unfortunately.

“I support competence,” I replied. Dean barked out a laugh. “Jesus. Remind me never to disappoint you.” “You play hockey at Briar. I’m assuming disappointment isn’t something you experience often.” “Wow,” he said. “You know, most people start with hello.” I finally shut my textbook. “Most people don’t hover over me while I’m trying to study.” “Fair.”

For a second, neither of us said anything. The sounds of skates scraping across the ice filled the silence.

Then Dean nodded toward Leo. “You were right last week, by the way.” “About?” “The shoulder thing.” He crossed his arms. “Kid practically announces his backhand before he even moves.” I tried not to look too smug. “I’ve been telling him that for a year.” “Yeah, well.” Dean shrugged. “You explained it better than his last coach.”

That caught me slightly off guard.

Not because he complimented me. Mostly because he said it like he actually meant it. Before I could respond, a puck slammed against the boards behind him.

“Coach Dean!” one of the kids yelled. “Mikey said a bad word!” Dean closed his eyes briefly. “Fantastic.”

I snorted before I could stop myself.

His head turned toward me immediately, like he was surprised I’d laughed at all. Then he grinned.

And that was probably the first real problem.

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Over the next couple weeks, Dean became weirdly unavoidable. Not in an aggressive way.

Just… present.

Sometimes he’d stop by the bleachers between drills to complain about the kids trying to fight each other. Sometimes he’d steal my highlighters. One time he sat next to me without asking and spent ten straight minutes trying to guess what I was studying based solely on diagrams.

“That one’s definitely the liver.” “It’s the brain.” “Well,” he said, frowning at the page. “That feels poorly drawn.”

Another time, he showed up with a caramel iced coffee and handed it to me casually.

“I didn’t ask for this.” “Yeah, but you looked miserable.” “I always look miserable here.” “That’s true,” he admitted. “But today looked worse.”

I tried very hard to stop the familiar feeling in my stomach.

It got worse after he started actually helping Leo. Not fake mentorship-program helping. Real helping.

Dean stayed late after practice fixing Leo’s shot mechanics. He chirped at him constantly, but he was patient about it. Never made him feel stupid. Halfway through one drill, Dean pointed toward the ice with his water bottle.

“Watch.”

Leo pushed forward into the line, shoulders level this time instead of dipping left before his backhand. The puck snapped cleanly into the top corner. Leo immediately turned toward the bleachers, both arms raised like he’d just scored a game winner.

Dean looked annoyingly pleased with himself.

“Okay,” I admitted reluctantly. “That was actually a good adjustment.” “Thank you,” Dean said solemnly. “I’ll remember this compliment forever.”

Leo adored him almost immediately.

“You know he likes you, right?” Leo asked one night while I helped him untie his skates. You: “Dean likes everybody.” Leo: “No, like likes you.”

I nearly dropped the skate.

You: “He does not.” Leo gave me a look that was far too knowing for a ten-year-old. “He asked if you were coming next Thursday.” You: “That doesn’t mean anything.” Leo: “He remembered your coffee order.” I narrowed my eyes. “Why are you paying attention to this?” Leo: “Because it’s embarrassing watching both of you pretend.”

I stared at him.

You: “Who let you get this nosy?” Leo: “You did. You raised me.”

Unfortunately, he had a point.

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The first time Dean and I really talked was because the rink vending machine ate my last five dollars. I smacked the side of it again.

Nothing.

“You know violence isn’t usually the answer.”

I looked over to find Dean walking into the lobby carrying his gear bag over one shoulder.

“This machine just stole from me.” “Tragic.” “I’m serious. That was the last of my cash.”

Dean crouched in front of the vending machine, inspecting it like it was a complex debate. Then he hit one specific spot with the side of his fist.

My granola bar dropped. My immediate thought was wow even a damn vending machine listens to him.

I blinked. “What.” “Spent enough years in hockey rinks, you learn things.” “You learn how to assault vending machines?” “It’s a gift.”

He handed me the granola bar with a dramatic flourish before dropping into the chair across from me.

“You’re here late.” “Organic chemistry.” “That sounds fake.” “It unfortunately isn’t.” Dean leaned back in the chair. “Okay, explain one chemistry thing to me.” “Why?” “Because I failed a chem quiz last semester and I’m still bitter about it.” A laugh slipped out. “You failed chemistry?” “Relax. I’m just pretty and athletic.” “That’s actually devastating news for women across campus.” “I know.”

He smiled when he said it, but there was something loose about him tonight. Less performative.

Not hockey-star Dean. Just… Dean.

And somehow that version made it worse for me.

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A week later, Dean picked up one of my anatomy flashcards off the table during practice.

“CN Seven,” he read. “This sounds fake already.” “It’s the facial nerve.” “And you just know that immediately?” “I’ve already had to memorize all twelve cranial nerves for three separate classes this past semester.” “That’s horrifying.” “You’re telling me.” He flipped the card over. “Okay, wait. What does this one do?” “Motor function for facial expression. Taste for the front two-thirds of the tongue.” Dean stared at me for a second. “You people are terrifying.” “You play hockey for fun.” “Yeah, but concussions are different from homework.”

Somehow, he made being mocked feel like a compliment.

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The rink got colder the later it got.

By the second half of practice, I’d started stuffing my hands into my sleeves between highlighting notes.

Dean noticed eventually.

Didn’t say anything about it, either.

He just walked past after drill rotations and dropped his Briar hoodie over my head like he was throwing a blanket over furniture.

I pulled it down enough to glare at him. “What is wrong with you?” “You looked cold.” “And this was your solution?” “You’re welcome, by the way.”

The stupid thing smelled like laundry detergent and his cologne.

Is it bad that I wanted to take it home?

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By the time the late-night skating happened, it didn’t feel random anymore. It felt inevitable in the way small things sometimes do before you realize they’ve become important.

Leo’s practice had ended almost an hour earlier. One of the other parents offered to drive him home, which left me alone in the nearly empty rink lobby with my laptop, a pile of flashcards, and a rapidly deteriorating mental state.

The overhead lights above the rink had been dimmed, leaving the ice washed in cool blue light that stretched long shadows across the empty surface.

Dean wandered out of the varsity locker room sometime after ten, hair damp from his shower and duffel bag hanging off one shoulder.

He slowed when he spotted me.

“You’re still here?” “Anatomy exam tomorrow.” “Bad?” “I think my brain has started rejecting information on principle.”

Dean dropped into the chair across from me and picked up one of my flashcards before I could stop him.

“CN Ten,” he read. “This one sounds important.” “The vagus nerve.” “Huh?”

Despite myself, I grinned down at the table.

Dean noticed.

That was the issue with him lately. He notices things.

Dean grinned slightly before flipping the card over. “What’s it do?” “Parasympathetic control of the heart, lungs, digestive tract—” “Okay, hold on.” He held up a hand. “How are you remembering all of this?” “I’m not,” I said flatly. “I’m actively dying.” “Seems dramatic.” “You failed chemistry.” “That was one time.” “Didn’t you just say you were still bitter about it?” Dean pointed at me. “See? This is why I can’t stand pre-med students. You people remember everything.”

After a minute, he leaned back in his chair and nodded toward the rink doors.

“You need a break.” “I really don’t.” “You’ve been staring at flashcards for like three hours.” “I have an exam.” “And your eyes look crossed.” “They are crossed.”

Dean stood up and grabbed two pairs of skates from beside the rental counter.

“Oh my god.” “Ten minutes.” “Dean—” “Doctor’s orders.” “You’re not a doctor.” “Well… Coach's orders, then.” he said, which honestly sounded more like a question.

I should’ve said no.

Instead, twenty minutes later, I was stepping out onto freshly zambonied ice in borrowed skates while Dean skated backward in front of me with entirely too much confidence.

The rink was quiet except for the soft scrape of blades cutting across the ice.

Better than anatomy, unfortunately.

Dean matched my pace easily. “You know, you’re less scary when you’re not holding flashcards.” “That’s disappointing. Fear was all I had going for me.” “Nah.” He glanced over at me briefly. “You’ve also got the judgmental staring thing.” “I do not.” “You absolutely do.”

I opened my mouth to argue and immediately lost balance slightly on a turn.

Dean caught my waist automatically. For a second, neither of us moved.

Then he let go.

Not awkwardly per se.

Just aware. As usual.

“Oh my god,” I muttered. “Leo is never hearing about this.” Dean chuckled quietly. “Your reputation survives another day.”

We skated another lap after that.

Then another.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t thinking about the exam anymore.

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❪ ⭑ ❫ “You’re staring again,” Dean says without even looking up.

❪ ⭑ ❫ “Am not.”

❪ ⭑ ❫ “You walked into a door five seconds ago.”

❪ ⭑ ❫ His smirk is so wide it’s offensive.

❪ ⭑ ❫ Before you can even defend yourself, he hops off the counter, walks over, and leans down until his face is inches from yours.

❪ ⭑ ❫ “If you want a picture, doll, you just have to ask. I’m very photogenic.”

❪ ⭑ ❫ From that day on, he makes it his personal mission to be as loud, distracting, and shirtless as possible whenever you’re around, just to see how long it takes before you trip over something else.

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I felt like a coward. But standing in the kitchen now, waiting for the water filled kettle to hiss to life, I realized my actual problem: I just couldn't face him. I couldn't look at him and see that smug, unchallenged smirk. I hated that he knew exactly how much power he had over me.

Worse of all, I could still remember his hands on my waist when he caught me.

I took a sharp breath, smoothed down my shorts, and picked up my matcha. My hands shaking just enough to make the liquid splash up against the side of the ceramic mug. Be normal, I told myself. Just don’t make this weird. Do anything else but weird.

Logan was already awake. He was sitting on the couch, fully dressed in his Briar Hockey hoodie, staring intently at his phone while his thumb flew across the screen. He looked completely unfazed, which only irritated me more.

Simulator Number Four—the plastic, interactive medical doll we were supposed to be co-parenting for our ethics seminar—was resting on the coffee table between us, blessedly quiet for once.

"Good morning," I said, forcing my voice into the most casual, breezy tone I could muster. I tried to look anywhere but at him, settling for staring at the team logo on his chest. "Did our grade survive the night?"

Logan looked up. The intense focus on his face instantly melted, but to my absolute shock, the cocky smirk didn't reappear. Instead, his eyes tracked me as I walked across the room.

Looking at me for a second too long.

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough from sleep, which unfortunately did not help my situation.

"We’re at a ninety-four percent. I kept an eye on the sensor cycles after you went to bed. The simulator’s respiratory track cleared up around four."

"Oh. Wow. Thank you." I set my drink down. Suddenly hyperaware of myself standing there in sleep shorts holding a cup of steaming matcha.

"Well, since my shift is starting, you're free to head back to the hockey house. Tucker and Graham are probably wondering if you died."

Logan didn't move. Then, slowly, he got up from the couch and stretched. The hem of his hoodie riding up, exposing a flash of skin.

Fuck.

I forced myself to look literally anywhere else.

He walked over to the kitchen island, stopping just a foot away. Cold air followed him across the apartment. His scent invading my space.

"About last night..." he murmured, leaning his hip against the counter.

"It was three in the morning," I blurted out, the words tripping over each other. "The simulator was crying, we both grabbed it at the same time, the space was tight. Things happen when people are sleep-deprived. We don't need to overanalyze it."

Logan stared at me for a long, quiet moment, letting my frantic excuse just hang in the air. Then, a tiny, knowing smile broke through his expression, not his usual arrogant grin, but something softer. And that should not have affected me as much as it did.

“Right,” he said slowly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Things got weird.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the counter, stopping just an inch from my hand. "But just so we're clear, partner... my heart wasn't beating that fast because of a plastic doll."

I forgot how to respond for a second. My entire facade threatening to splinter right down the middle. He knew. He absolutely knew he'd rattled me.

Logan gripped the strap of his duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He took a step back toward the door, giving me one last, lingering look. Which somehow that look was worse than the flirting.

"See you tonight at eight. Don't forget to feed the kid."