you grew up with strict parents. they loved you of course, but they could be very overprotective.

you always had to have good grades, you couldn’t party, i mean- you couldn’t even have sleepovers until you were fucking 16 years old.

i know. crazy.

anyways, once you got to college, you wanted to feel like nothing could stop you. you wanted to have fun.

so you went to parties, you went to bars, you made friends, had sleepovers, hooked up, whatever.

you even had gotten a tattoo. which to this day, you’re parents have no clue about.

it’s a pretty butterfly on your lower back, so it’s easy to hide, only if you want it to of course.

and you loved it. you loved feeling in control of your life.

maxwell jordan, mainly known as max, knew from a young age that he was meant for trouble.

he was always doing sneaky pranks, or getting to fights, which in his defense- were very reasonable.

the main way he got his frustration out was on the ice, in hockey.

and he was really fucking good.

like he’s-going-to-the-NHL-and-plays-at-harvard good.

of course he partied, and hooked up with girls. plenty.

yep, been there done that.

anyways, it’s a weekend in the city and it is packed because of a hockey game.

you decide to go to a bar with your friends, Katie and Michelle, to celebrate Katie’s graduation.

little did you know, as soon as you walked in there- the whole bar was full of hockey players from harvard, also known as your hockey teams biggest rivals.

as you order you drinks, you’re eyes drift over and land on one guy in particular.

of course you knew who he was.

maxwell jordan.

one of the best college hockey players. or that’s what your dad always said.

he was dressed in basic jeans and a team hoodie, and somehow he still looked incredibly hot.

katie nudges you.

“you can drool over the hockey players later. come help us with the drinks.”