Kayden
When the taxi I took to Rhys's home rolled to a stop, I honestly thought we had taken a wrong turn somewhere, because nothing about the place ahead of me felt like the kind of house a star athlete would live in.
It was too quiet, too deep in the woods, and too far from everything, wrapped in towering pines that swallowed the last of the sunlight.
The house wasn't small by any means. If anything, it was the opposite. It was a massive, modern penthouse built straight into the hillside with all dark glass and cold steel and long, clean lines that reflected the trees around it.
It looked like a place someone lived when they didn't want to be found, or when they had something to hide.
I stepped out of the taxi and the cold air hit me immediately, cutting through my jacket before I even reached for my bag.
The driver sped off before I could change my mind and climb back in, and I found myself standing there alone with the wind howling through the branches and the entire property sitting in complete silence.
My stomach twisted unpleasantly and I hated how isolated it felt and, more than anything, I hated that I was here because of Rhys Calder and his blatant hatred for me.
I dragged my suitcase behind me to the front door, and before I could reach for it, Rhys stood there with one hand braced against the frame. He was dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants, his hair damp like he had just showered, and his expression was unreadable except for the obvious irritation tightening his jaw.
He looked bigger inside his own space, like the shadows pulled toward him. His winter pine scent drifted toward me in a faint wave—warm and dangerous in a way that made my insides tighten involuntarily.
"I didn't think you'd actually show up," Rhys said, his voice low, blunt, and carrying none of the forced politeness he used in front of the media. "Most guys fight harder when the Coach tells them to live with me."
I swallowed and adjusted my hand on my suitcase. "I follow the rules," I said. "And Coach said this is necessary, so I'm here."
Rhys stepped aside without giving a verbal invitation, but the gesture was clear enough. I walked in, my suitcase brushing against the doorway, and the warmth of the house wrapped around me in a quiet wave.
Everything inside was clean to the point of sterility. The hardwood floors, dark leather furniture, a stone fireplace that looked like it had never been used, and huge windows that overlooked nothing but endless forest.
It felt like the kind of place where you couldn't breathe too loudly without breaking something. And his scent was everywhere. I wondered how I was going to survive that.
Rhys closed the door behind me and exhaled, like even having me inside irritated him on some level he couldn't hide. "Before you put your stuff anywhere," he said, "we're going to set rules. Clear ones, and they're non-negotiable."
I clenched my jaw very slightly, because of course he would start like this. "Alright," I said. "Let's hear them."
Rhys crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt in a way that was—unfortunately—impossible not to notice.
His expression never softened as he spoke. "Rule one: You respect the space. This house is for training and recovery. No noise, no late-night nonsense, and no distractions. If you are the type to hold parties, you are in the wrong home."
"Fine," I said evenly.
"Rule two: You clean up after yourself. I don't care what you did in your last team's living space, but here, everything stays exactly where it belongs. Don't touch what doesn't belong to you."
I nodded, stiff but controlled. "That's fine."
"Rule three," Rhys added, his voice dropping slightly, "when we're here, we work. Film review, conditioning, chemistry drills—whatever Coach assigns. You don't skip anything. And you don't come late to practice, because this place is not far from the arena."
Heat prickled at the back of my neck. He didn't even try to hide the jab about what happened this morning. "I said I was stuck in traffic," I reminded him quietly.
"And I said I don't care," Rhys replied, completely unbothered. "Because excuses don't matter in this league. Effort does, and you are clearly not showing any yet."
I inhaled slowly, keeping my face neutral even though something inside me tightened with irritation. "Anything else?" I asked.
"Yes," Rhys said, stepping a little closer, enough that I could feel the faint warmth of his body and the sharp winter pine in his scent curling into the air between us. His eyes held mine without flinching. "Rule four: Don't treat this like we're friends. We're not. We're teammates trying to fix a problem before the playoffs. That's all this is."
I held his gaze, refusing to look away even when the air felt too heavy and too charged and too intimate for a conversation about rules. "Understood," I said.
Rhys's eyes flickered—just barely—but he stepped back a moment later and jerked his chin toward the hallway. "Your room is down there. Third door on the left. Don't go into any room that isn't yours unless I say so."
"That's easy enough."
"And Kayden?" Rhys added as I started down the hall. I paused and turned back.
Rhys stood with one hand braced on the wall, watching me with an expression I couldn't read. "If you want this to work," he said slowly, "then don't lie to me about anything. I hate liars the most."
The words hit harder than they should have. I felt my throat tighten. For a moment, I couldn't tell if he was talking about hockey or something else entirely. "I don't lie," I said, my voice steady, even though deep down, I was full of lies.
Rhys's jaw flexed. "We'll see."
His scent drifted toward me again, curling into my lungs in a way I hated and couldn't avoid. I turned away before something in my expression betrayed me and walked down the hallway toward the room he gave me. I could feel his piercing gaze on my back the entire time.
I hated being here. I hated his rules. I hated the tension that made my skin feel too tight whenever he looked at me. And yet, as I closed the door to my temporary room, the worst part was the quiet admission I couldn't push away: I hated how badly a part of me wanted him to look at me again.