Chapter 3 003

SLOANE

The easiest way to stop loving someone is to stay away from them.

Too bad the universe (and the Maplewood housing department) had other ideas.

“I’m going to drop this,” I gasp, arms shaking as I balance a massive cardboard box labeled BOOKS / HEAVY AF against my chin. “Zoe, get the door. Please tell me the key card is ready.”

“Got it, got it.” Zoe frantically swipes her ID. The glass door of Alder Hall beeps and clicks open. I stumble into the air-conditioned lobby and dump the box onto a plastic bench with a pathetic groan. Red lines are carved into my palms. My messy bun is collapsing. I’m sweating through a gray tank top.

Still, a small spark of excitement cuts through the exhaustion.

Classes start tomorrow. Campus is alive—students hauling mini-fridges and giant blue bags across the lawns. This morning felt like the official start of my new life. A reinvention. No more hiding in the shadows. No more losing sleep over the boy who caught my wrist on a dark porch two nights ago and looked at me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

I am a college student now. New goals. New schedule. Blank slate.

Zoe taps the lobby window and points across the courtyard. “Isn’t that the athlete housing?”

I follow her gaze. Directly across the small grassy quad sits Cedar Crest—the modern brick building reserved for varsity athletes. It’s close. Dangerously close. I can literally see into some of the living-room windows.

“Yeah,” I say, a knot forming in my stomach. “Kai said he and Noah got a suite over there.”

“Perfect,” Zoe chirps, completely missing my internal panic. “Free security and built-in party invites right across the grass. We lucked out.”

I force a tight laugh. It’s a huge campus. I won’t even see them.

“Come on. Last load from the car, then dining hall.”

We head back to my tiny sedan, packed to the roof. I haul a heavy plastic bin of winter sweaters out of the trunk while Zoe grabs lamps and a giant plush rug. Balancing the bin on my hip, I kick the trunk shut and turn toward the stairs.

A shadow falls over me.

“Need a hand with that?”

The voice is low, smooth, and instantly familiar. My muscles lock before my brain catches up.

Noah stands at the bottom of the concrete steps in dark athletic shorts and a backward Maplewood Hockey cap. A silver chain catches the sunlight against his tanned neck. He looks like he just finished a morning workout—skin slightly flushed, faint sweat patches on his gray T-shirt.

“Noah,” I breathe. My heart immediately starts an erratic, traitorous dance. “What are you doing over here?”

“Helping Kai move extra gear into our storage locker downstairs.” He nods toward the basement entrance of my building, then steps closer. His dark eyes sweep over the bin in my arms. “That looks heavy. Give it here.”

“I can manage,” I say quickly, pride flaring. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue. He just steps into my space, broad frame blocking the sun, and takes the weight from my arms. His large, calloused hands brush mine for a second. A sharp electric jolt shoots straight up my wrists.

“I know you can manage, Sloane,” he says softly, voice dropping as he lifts the bin like it weighs nothing. “But you don’t have to.”

My throat goes dry. “Floor three,” I mutter, turning to lead the way because my face feels like it’s on fire.

The interaction is ordinary—just a guy helping a girl carry a box. But the silence between us as we climb the stairs is loud. I hear the steady thud of his sneakers, the even rhythm of his breathing.

On the third-floor landing I unlock room 312. Noah walks in and sets the bin down with a soft click.

“Thanks,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the room feels.

“Don’t worry about it.” He takes off his cap, runs a hand through damp dark hair, then puts it back on.

In the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway I notice things I’ve somehow never seen before.

He isn’t the invincible hockey god from the arena anymore. Up close there’s a tiny faded white scar near his jawline—probably from an old high stick or skate blade. Dark shadows of exhaustion sit under his eyes, the physical proof of a guy carrying an entire team and an NHL draft future on his shoulders.

But the strangest part is the way his expression softens when he looks at me. The intense armor he wears around everyone else disappears.

My chest aches with a heavy realization. This isn’t a childhood crush anymore. He isn’t a poster or a distant dream. Noah Brooks is becoming a real, breathing, dangerously complicated person. And that makes him ten times harder to resist.

“Kai’s going to be hovering all week,” he says, a rare faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He’s already stressing about your schedule. If he gets too annoying, tell me. I’ll make him do extra suicide sprints at practice.”

A small laugh escapes me. “Please do. He already lectured me about my shirt on Saturday.”

Noah’s eyes drop for a fraction of a second, tracking the line of my collarbone before snapping back to my face. The air in the room goes still, thick with sudden unspoken tension that makes my lungs tight.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, jaw tightening as he steps back into the hallway. “He’s just being a brother. I’ll see you around, Sloane.”

“See you, Noah.”

I close the door, lean my back against the wood, and let out a long shaky breath. Get it together, I tell myself, pressing my palms to my hot cheeks. He’s just being nice. He’s Kai’s best friend. That’s all.

By eleven that night the dorm is finally unpacked. Zoe is already asleep under her mountain of pillows, fairy lights casting soft shadows across the room.

I’m cross-legged on my bed in an oversized T-shirt, scrolling a syllabus on my laptop. Outside, the Vermont wind rattles the glass.

My phone buzzes against the mattress.

I pick it up and squint at the bright screen.

Unknown Number: Welcome to campus, Sloane.

I frown, thumb hovering. Before I can reply, a second text lights up the

display and steals the air from my lungs.

Unknown Number: It’s Noah. Save my number.