He holds out his hand, and when my hand meets his in a firm shake, I lift my eyes to his. They’re striking, a bright crystal-blue color. The skin around them crinkles as he smiles, and for a moment, my breath gets caught in my throat.
He’s sunshine and confidence. Cool and unbothered. His face is open and unguarded, his demeanor laid-back and disarming. I surmise this instantly, like I do with all people—compliments of growing up with an unpredictable parent. People say not to judge a book by its cover, but my intuition has never been wrong.
I tear my eyes and hand away, returning to my open suitcase on the bare mattress.
“I’m Stephen McKinley.” He tosses his suitcase onto the opposing bed and drops his duffle bag onto the floor. “I’m good with this side of the room. I’m not picky.”
“I got here first. Didn’t think it mattered.”
“Yeah, man, it’s cool. You gotta establish dominance and all.” He laughs at his own joke and claps me on the back. “What’s your name? Where you from?”
This guy has entirely too much energy. And he’s touching me, in my personal space.
“Chance.” I set my neatly folded clothes in piles on the bed, preparing to organize everything.
“Got a last name too, or do you go by one, like Madonna and Prince?”
I roll my eyes. “Kellerman.”
“Where are you from, Chance Kellerman?”
I inch away from him and move to stand at the foot of the bed instead. “Brooklyn.”
“Aye, a New Yorker. I’m from Cali.” He flops onto the bed—mybed—knocking over one of my clothing piles. “What’s your major?”
This guy is like an overgrown kid.
“Do you mind?” I yank the clothes out from under his large body. “You have your own bed.”
“Sorry, man.” But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t shut up either. “I’m here on a hockey scholarship. Gonna play in the NHL one day. You like hockey?”
A noise bubbles out of me, a mix somewhere between a humorless laugh and a groan, because of course he’s a hockey player.
Hockey is just about the only thing I do like. I live, eat, breathe, sleep hockey, and have since I was a kid. It’s my ticket out of this worthless excuse of a life.
“What position do you play?” I ask only because now I have to know.
“I’m a winger.”
Same position as me. This should be interesting.
He lifts a pair of my boxer-briefs and dangles them off his index finger. “Guess that settles theboxers or briefsquestion. I prefer commando myself.”
I snatch back my underwear and grit my teeth. “Get off my bed.”
He chuckles, and like a clueless dog, he flips onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. “This is it, man. It’s all about to happen. Our future is starting right now.”
Nerves bubble in my stomach. All I’ve ever wanted was to be out of my house and on my own. I clawed my way to get here; some days I didn’t think I’d make it. But right now, away from my home, away from my father...it feels like I can finally breathe.
Here, I can start over. I can be anyone I want to be.
Stephen stretches his arms overhead and his T-shirt rides up, revealing a sculpted set of abs. The dude is in shape. Broad shoulders, solid biceps, and prominent triceps, with veins running down his forearms, leading to massive hands. It’s like the universe is tempting me—testing me to find out how I’ll react to being in close proximity to a man this beautiful.
To make it worse, Stephen catches me staring, and he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, his flirty response leads me to believe he’s into it.
“See something you like?”
Fuck.If I want to start over, I need to leave my past behind. Guard up, secrets buried, emotions off.