Error 403: The Hockey Captain's Corrupted Love

I'm Sloane Whitmore.

As the Computer Science department's certified "code machine," I've always lived by one principle: going solo is the most efficient way to exist. Any unnecessary human interaction is just redundant bloatware slowing down the system.

To avoid those pointless pre-class small talks, I make it a habit to claim the front row center seat in the lab by seven-thirty sharp. Quiet. Focused. Zero complications.

Until eight o'clock.

BANG—!

The door exploded open with brute force, instantly shattering the absolute silence of the computer lab.

"Cap, I swear those girls from Delta Phi were drooling over you at the afterparty last night. That blonde wouldn't leave you alone."

"Yeah, well." A low chuckle. "Can't help being a crowd favorite. Come on, find a seat."

Cold air swept in, carrying the scent of mint mixed with athletic body spray, accompanied by arrogant laughter that crashed into the classroom.

I frowned, eyes still locked on my screen. Just another pack of testosterone-drunk party animals.

Through my peripheral vision, I caught several tall guys in black-and-red varsity jackets striding in.

Leading the pack was Corbin Hawke. Hockey captain, campus heartthrob with a revolving door of girlfriends. Vice-captain Jaxon trailed beside him, followed by a cluster of perfectly made-up cheerleaders clearly vying for his attention.

I kept my focus on the screen. These boring social games weren't my problem.

"That girl in the front row center looks pretty interesting," a lowered male voice drifted over.

I could feel someone staring. Being treated like a museum exhibit made my skin crawl.

"That's Sloane Whitmore, CS's infamous Ice Queen. Dude, don't even bother. She's an emotionless code robot who doesn't give any guy the time of day."

Code robot? I smirked internally. These guys' vocabulary was as limited as their playbook.

I simply knew what I wanted and refused to waste time on pointless social theatrics.

Professor Johnson walked in, and the chaos died instantly. I closed my compiling window, ready for lecture.

"Good morning, everyone. Welcome to Introduction to Computer Science..." The professor scribbled on the board. "This course will help you build fundamental programming logic."

If I didn't need this mandatory core credit to maintain my full-ride scholarship, I'd never set foot in a 101 class that spends half a period explaining "Hello World."

The professor launched into the basics—data types, variables, control structures. Material I'd mastered in high school. I half-listened while mentally debugging my algorithm architecture.

Behind me, a cluster of girls whispered and giggled. "Oh my god, Corbin Hawke is in our class." "He looks even better up close." "Do you think he remembers me from the party?" "Girl, he doesn't remember anyone—"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Typical.

Forty minutes crawled by.

Finally, Professor Johnson capped his marker. "Alright, before you all escape—one more thing. Your first programming project."

The room perked up. I straightened slightly.

"A basic algorithm assignment, to be completed in pairs. Due next Friday. Now, find your partners."

Pairs? My pen tip pressed hard against the paper. Teamwork would only drag me down.

The classroom erupted as students scrambled for partners. I frowned, debating whether to ask the professor for solo permission.

Just as I started to stand, a massive shadow suddenly fell over my desk, blocking all the light from the front.

I looked up. The hockey captain jerk from earlier was now hovering over me.

Up close, the physical intimidation was even more concrete—nearly six-foot-four, a faint wild scar cutting through his brow. Right now, those deep brown eyes were locked on me, his signature hockey smile curling up—the one that made girls campus-wide lose their minds.

"Hey, I'm Corbin Hawke." His voice came out low and rough, dripping with practiced confidence. "Wanna partner up?"

"I know who you are." I didn't look up, rejecting him point-blank. "But I don't need a partner."

He raised an eyebrow, apparently finding the blunt refusal refreshing. Instead of backing off, he planted both hands on my desk edge, his long fingers grazing the corner of my laptop screen.

"I've heard about you, Whitmore." He leaned in slightly. "But the professor said pairs. No exceptions."

To make him give up, I swiveled my screen toward him and hit enter. A green progress bar instantly filled the display:

"I already finished the basic version listed on the syllabus. Now I'm optimizing the advanced architecture. You're useless to me."

Corbin stared at the screen packed with dense code, surprise flickering in his eyes. But he recovered quickly.

"Cool." He gave a low whistle. "Guess I just hit the jackpot."

That's when Professor Johnson noticed us. "Sloane, I said pairs are mandatory. No exceptions."

I sighed internally. No escape.

I pulled my laptop back, fixing Corbin with a cold stare. "Fine. But I have conditions."

"Shoot." He dragged the chair next to me out and dropped into it, long legs sprawling carelessly, taking up half the aisle.

I tore a sheet from my notebook, scribbled several lines, and slapped it on the desk in front of his chest.

"This is the timeline." I met his eyes, voice flat. "The assignment's just a basic script, but I'm building a full application. You handle the interface—keep it clean. I'll do the backend and integration."

Corbin picked up the paper, scanning the military-precision schedule, and let out a low laugh. "Submit interface mockups by Tuesday eight PM? You gonna schedule my bathroom breaks too?"

"As long as it doesn't affect the deadline, do whatever you want."

"Don't you think we should get to know each other first?" His tone was casual, almost teasing. "Like, exchange numbers, or maybe—"

"Getting to know each other doesn't help complete the assignment." I cut him off coolly. This pickup routine wouldn't work on me. "I can give you my number, but project communication only."

I tore off another sticky note, wrote down my number with usage guidelines, and handed it over: Contact during reasonable hours only, emergencies excepted. No small talk.

Corbin took the note, and after reading my addendum, couldn't help but laugh quietly. "Reasonable hours? This is a school project, not a corporate job."

I laced my fingers together, staring at him coldly. "I work by schedule. Around here, your hockey star privilege doesn't buy you special treatment. Fall behind, and I'll petition the professor to kick you off the project unilaterally."

He looked surprised, something like a spark igniting in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, voice dripping with undisguised provocation. "What if I call you anyway, Whitmore? You gonna file a restraining order?"

I adjusted my glasses, expression blank. "I'll block you."

The bell rang right on cue.

I didn't linger a second. I snapped my laptop shut, stuffed it into my canvas bag, and stood. "Requirements doc will be in your school email in five minutes."

I headed straight for the exit. I could still feel that burning stare drilling into my back.

Outside the building, the cold air cleared away the lingering mint scent from my nostrils. I exhaled deeply.

Most guys I rejected knew when to back off. But that look in his eyes—that refusal to give up...

Whatever. As long as he delivered on time.

Corbin was just a temporary anomaly in my life's program. A glitch that wouldn't occupy a single byte of my mental RAM.

At least, that's what I thought.