Breaking The Rules

Chapter 12

"Where is it?" I mumbled into my cramped closet.

The few boxes I managed to take with me from Miles' apartment were stacked in a semi-chaotic tower that threatened to tip at any moment. To be fair, they were much more organized until I went searching for a particular box of textbooks I remembered packing into the back of Hendrix's truck.

I scratched my forehead with unpainted nails, trying to think about where it could have ended up. Where else could they possibly be? Thinking they might magically appear, I sifted through the rack of clothes while I scanned the floor one last time. When the box didn't pop out of thin air, I closed the closet door and turned on my heel.

Besides the mound of sheets on my bed, there was nowhere this box could be hiding. I let out a sigh. If I wasn't already behind on my philosophy readings, I might not have cared to find them. But while I was planning on burning them in celebration once the semester was over, I also wasn't about to repurchase hundreds of dollars of textbooks because of a misplaced box.

Even though I didn't want to bother any of my new housemates, I figured that enlisting someone's help was better than walking around aimlessly. Someone in the Hockey House knew where that box was. I simply had to ask.

Stepping out into the hallway, I figured I'd work my way around. Starting with the guy who slept across the wall.

Maverick had made it pretty clear he wasn't the biggest fan of me living there. But I could have sworn there was a shift the night we spoke in the kitchen. Did I think he was still irritated by my presence? Sure. But he was more tolerant of me since we returned from collecting my things.

I knocked twice, leaving little to no pause before I flung open the door.

That was a mistake.

My eyes landed on Maverick's bed, half-expecting him to be sprawled out and relaxing before the game tonight.

That is not what I saw.

The toned muscles of Maverick's ass flexed as he twisted around to face me, a pair of legs draped over his shoulders. Instead of being flustered by my intrusion he raised a thick eyebrow and paused mid-trust. "Need something?"

My eyes were as wide as dinner plates, and a flush of heat spread up my neck.

"Uh—sorry!" I stammered, my voice coming out higher than I'd intended.

Embarrassment surged through me and urged me to make as much space between myself and Maverick as possible. I swiveled on my heel and bolted, my heart pounding in my ears as I made my way towards the stairs. I could feel my face burning, my hands instinctively cupping my cheeks as I rushed down to the main floor, mortified.

God, why hadn't I waited for him to reply?

But more importantly, why hadn't I heard them? Was this I sign that I was becoming desensitized hearing Maverick's sex life through the thin wall between our rooms? Or was it the fact that he had so many women over that I didn't even take notice of the grunts and the groans anymore?

I stumbled into the kitchen, hoping to cool down my face and my nerves. Easton was by the counter, scrolling through his phone, while Booker was shoveling what looked like an entire sandwich into his mouth. A tall glass of milk next to the sauce covered plate. They were already partially dressed in their pre-game suits. Partially, because Booker wore a skin-tight wife beater instead of his dress shirt that was casually draped over a chair by the kitchen table.

He noticed me come in first, giving me a nod of acknowledgment as he chewed. "Hey," he mumbled through a mouthful, "you good?"

I forced a smile, trying to act like I wasn't about to die of embarrassment. "Yeah," I breathed, avoiding eye contact as I grabbed myself a glass of water.