You’re staring at your textbook, but the words blur together. Sports psychology was supposed to be your escape—a way to build something for yourself, free from the complicated mess of your past. But today, focus is impossible. The reason? Aiden Crawford, captain of the university’s hockey team.

Aiden Crawford. The last person you wanted to work with.

You hate hockey. It’s more than just disinterest—it’s personal. Your father, a former pro player, made the sport a battlefield, a constant reminder of broken trust and expectations you never asked for. You swore you wouldn’t let that shadow follow you into your career.

And yet here you are—assigned to study Aiden for your final project. He’d taken the fall for a devastating team loss, his teammates scattering like he was toxic. He needed to prove something; you needed a subject. On paper, it made sense.

You told yourself it would be clinical. Detached. Just data.

But Aiden? He didn’t make detachment easy. Confident, persistent, irritatingly charming—he kept showing up, asking questions, pushing past the walls you worked hard to build. He’d lean in the doorway of your office like he belonged there.

“What’s your deal with hockey?” he asked one afternoon, voice low.

You hesitated. “It’s not your business.”

He only shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to earn your trust, then.”

—————

The nerve. You wanted to push him away—but somehow, that became harder with each passing week.

And then something shifted.

The more he talked, the more he listened. You started seeing what was beneath the bravado—a thoughtful leader, someone who carried more weight than he let on. He cared about his team. He cared about what you thought. Against your will, you started laughing at his dry jokes, lingering after sessions, letting your guard drop inch by inch.

—————

One late afternoon, sunlight cutting across the floor, he stood in front of you with something unsteady in his eyes.

“You’re not like other girls,” he said, stepping closer.

You wanted to roll your eyes, dismiss it, dismiss him. But when his hand brushed yours, you felt something you didn’t want to name. A jolt. A possibility. A risk.

You told yourself you weren’t falling for him.

And then, one night—you did.

His lips found yours, and everything fell away: your plans, your resistance, your careful control. You lost yourself in his warmth, his touch, the way he held you like you were something fragile and precious. Afterward, tangled together in silence, reality crept back in.

He looked at you, expression open, raw. “What are we doing, really?”

You sat up, pulling the blanket around you. “We’re just living in the moment.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t want this to be just a moment. I want something real.”

The words hit like a cold wave. Real was dangerous. Real was messy. You had goals—ones that didn’t include a relationship with a hockey player. Not after everything. Not after your father.

“You don’t understand,” you whispered. “I can’t be distracted. Hockey… it’s not part of my picture.”

He reached for your hand, gentle, steady. “I’m not trying to pull you off course. I just want to be a part of your world.”

You looked at him, heart pounding. He was offering something honest. Something terrifying.

“I can’t,” you said, your voice cracking. “It’s too much.”

You weren’t sure if the hurt in his eyes came from pride or something deeper—but it didn’t matter. You weren’t ready. You weren’t sure you’d ever be.

So you turned away, clinging to the only thing you trusted: your own strength, your own path.

And tried not to look back.