Chapter 4 Roommate From Hell

ETHAN'S POV

I didn't sleep. Not even close.

Ares Cole was breathing four feet under me and my door doesn't lock. Those were the facts. I lay there staring at the water stain on the ceiling—the one that looks like the Upper Peninsula if you squint hard enough—and ran the whole thing over and over. Seventeen years in this room and I never once gave a shit about that stain. By three a.m. I knew every inch of it.

Every time his mattress creaked or the sheet dragged over his skin it felt like he was saying it out loud: I’m right here. I know what you did.

I’d close my eyes and see the scar on his lip. Open them and I was back in that locker room hearing him say “wrong answer” like it was nothing.

At 6:47 I quit pretending. Climbed down quiet as I could. He was sprawled across the bottom bunk in black boxers, one tattooed arm over his eyes, sheet kicked down to his waist. Chest rising and falling. I looked longer than I should have. Then I grabbed sweats and got the hell out.

Hall bathroom. Brushed my teeth. Same bullshit I’ve been telling the mirror for a year: one drunk night. Means nothing. Doesn’t make you anything.

My scar’s mostly faded. I still pressed my thumb into it. Same spot as his. Same night. I split his lip open and whatever cracked open in me never really closed. Just went quiet enough that people stopped noticing.

When I came back he was sitting up, elbows on his knees, hair a mess. Morning light hit every line of ink across his shoulders. He gave me that crooked half-smile where the scar pulls tight.

“Morning, roommate. You always bolt like the place is on fire?”

“Breakfast’s at seven.” I turned to the closet so I didn’t have to look at him. “My mom makes eggs. Don’t be late or she’ll trap you for twenty minutes talking team nutrition.”

“Wouldn’t risk it.”

I heard him stand up and stretch behind me. Pulled on a clean Wolves shirt and didn’t turn around once. This room held me fine for twenty years. One night and it already felt like his.

Grabbed my bag and went downstairs without another word.

April was setting the table, humming. Came over and hugged me around the waist like she always does. Nineteen and still doing it. Same strawberry shampoo since middle school.

“Morning, Captain Big Shot. You guys killed it last night. That new guy Ares—is he even human? Those goals? And he’s staying in your room? This is insane.”

“Yeah.” I ruffled her hair. “It’s temporary. Don’t make it a thing.”

Too late. Her cheeks went pink just from saying his name. I wrapped both hands around my coffee mug and held on. April still thinks her big brother has his shit together. The guy she’s blushing over has proof on his phone that I don’t.

Mom walked in with towels. “Ethan, set another plate. Your roommate coming down?”

“On his way.”

Dad was already at the table, tablet up, glasses sliding down his nose. “Heard the transfer had a goal and an assist his first night. Coach must be thrilled. You two getting along?”

I unclenched my jaw. “It’s fine. He’s a lot.”

Footsteps on the stairs saved me from saying more. Ares walked in wearing gray sweats and a plain black shirt that didn’t hide a damn thing from the sleeves down. Moved like he’d been eating breakfast in this kitchen his whole life.

“Morning, Mrs. Drake. Mr. Drake.” Nod to each of them. “April.” Then that little chin tilt straight at me. “Captain.”

Mom got that look she gets when she’s already decided to keep a stray. “Ares, sit. How do you like your eggs?”

“However they come is perfect.”

He took the chair right across from me. His knee bumped mine under the table and I jerked back like it burned. Nobody saw. I checked.

April handed him the orange juice, practically glowing. “That wrist shot in the third—I thought the goalie was gonna walk off the ice.”

He laughed, low. “Your brother set up most of it.” Eyes locked on mine and stayed there. “Right?”

“Just running the plays.” I stabbed my eggs the second the plate hit the table.

Conversation kept going without me. Dad asked about his old school. Mom offered him seconds before he’d finished the first plate. April leaned in every time he opened his mouth. I kept my face blank and watched the clock. Every time his foot found mine under the table I counted who was looking before I moved it.

He wasn’t just in my house. He was in every room in my head I’d spent a year trying to scrub clean.

After breakfast I went up for my gear. His footsteps followed me down the hall, taking their time, like he already owned the place. Door clicked shut behind him.

I zipped my bag hard. “You don’t have to do all that down there.”

“Do what?” He leaned against the door, arms loose, watching me.

“Act like we’re tight. Flirt with my sister. Charm my parents.” I turned on him. “This isn’t a game, Cole. I’ve got a scholarship. A captain spot. One wrong story and there’s nothing left. So whatever you think happened last summer—”

“I don’t think.” Calm. One step closer. Scar caught the light. “I know. You kissed me. You wanted it. I’ve had a whole year to sit with that while you tried to erase it.”

My back hit the closet door. He was close enough I could smell the soap on his skin, close enough to watch his eyes drop to my mouth and come back up. Downstairs the house kept being normal—April laughing, water running—and it just made the door feel thinner.

“Stop,” I said. “Just stop.”

He didn’t move.

I got the words out before they could mean anything else.

“It was a mistake.”

He went completely still. Not his hands. Not his eyes. The confidence, the half-smirk, the patience—all of it cut off clean.

“A mistake.” He said it slow, like he was testing how sharp it still was.

The truth was right there. I said nothing.

He let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh and didn’t. “I spent a year looking for you.” Quieter. Rougher. “Twelve months. Two transfers. A scholarship I walked away from. I watched that blurry video so many times I memorized the way your hands looked on my shirt.”

He stepped back. The four feet between us might as well have been the whole damn house.

“So was I.” Too quiet. Too late. “Looking for you.”

He grabbed his bag and left without looking back. Stairs. Front door open. Front door shut.

I stood there with the word still in my mouth and no way to take it back.

Practice was hell.

Not because Coach ran us hard—he always does. Because Ares wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t pass to me. Gave me exactly what the drills asked for and nothing extra. Skated like a machine. All precision, zero fire. That was worse than any smirk he’d ever thrown my way.

The team noticed. Asher kept looking between us with that crease in his forehead. Martinez asked if we’d fought. Everything’s fine. Same line. Same lie I’d been using for a year before Ares even showed up to need it.

Got home, dropped my bag by the door, went straight upstairs.

His bunk was empty. Bag gone. Charger pulled out of the wall.

For one second I thought that was it.

Then I found his duffel shoved in the corner of the closet, half-unzipped. Still here. Just gone for now.

I sat on the edge of the bottom bunk and put my head in my hands.

Phone buzzed. Sara.

Sara—the girl I’d been seen with just enough times that people drew their own conclusions, and I’d never once corrected them. Sweet. Pretty. Safe. She had no idea what job she was doing for me.

Everyone keeps asking if we’re a thing 😅 I keep saying idk. Am I saying the right thing?

That was it. No pressure. Sara never pushed. That was the whole point of her, and I’d built it that way on purpose.

I sat there staring at the screen. There was a version of this where I typed four words and the whole question of Ethan Drake got answered for everybody, permanently, out loud. Sara would say yes. She’d been waiting two years to say yes.

I thought about Ares’s face when the word “mistake” landed—like watching someone close a door they’d been holding open for a year. The rain. His mouth. Maybe next summer, whispered against mine.

And under all of it the scholarship, the C on my jersey, my parents, April—everybody holding a version of me I’d built brick by brick with my own two hands.

I typed Say whatever you want. Deleted it. Typed You’re not saying anything wrong. Deleted that too.

Put the phone face-down on the desk without sending a single word. And somehow that was the worst thing I did all day—because I knew I was going to use her eventually. I just hadn’t picked the day yet.

Downstairs, the front door. Footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Heavy.