I’m not proud of the fact that I’m standing outside Rupi’s building with my hockey bag still slung over my shoulder and a damn bouquet of lilies in my hands like some lovesick idiot. Correction: expensive lilies. The kind that made the florist look at me like, bro, what did you do?

What I did was apparently exist as a person who’s had a life before Rupi Kapoor decided to grace mine with her five-foot-nothing, sharp-tongued, half-Indian glory. Which—yeah—was a mistake, because now she thinks one picture from two years ago means I’ve been lying to her.

I knock, once, twice, the kind of knock that says it’s me, you’re not getting rid of me that easy.

No answer.

I try again. “Rupi, open up.” My voice cracks a little on the last syllable, which is great. Exactly the kind of intimidating hockey-captain energy I’m known for on the ice.

The thing is, I’ve had girls. A lot of them. It comes with the territory—captain of the team, golden boy, face plastered on the damn student-athlete posters around campus. But the first time I saw Rupi? Game over. She was dressed as Little Red Riding Hood at a frat party, cape and all, shoving her tiny body against two guys from the football team who were twice her size. Why? Because one of them had his hand where it didn’t belong on her friend’s ass.

And there she was, five feet of fury, glaring up at them like she was about to swing. I knew in that moment I was ruined. Not because she was the prettiest girl in the room—which she was—but because she didn’t give a single damn that those dudes could crush her. She was fearless. Stubborn. The exact opposite of every easy, shiny thing I’d been used to.

And it's with that same stubbornness that she won’t answer her door now.

“Rupi,” I try again, leaning my forehead against the wood like I’m about to start praying. “Do you think I’ve been sitting here in your bed every night for months while secretly plotting my reunion tour with some random brunette from sophomore year?”

Silence.

God, she’s killing me.

“I brought lilies,” I add, and my voice goes softer. “You can’t slam a door in the face of lilies. They’re your favorite, right? They're pink, and they smell like actual heaven, and—” I groan. “Jesus, I sound pathetic. Can you please just talk to me?”

I glance down the hall. One of her neighbors is peeking out through a chain lock, watching this entire performance. Perfect. Just what I need. Bennet Callahan, hockey captain, the guy who once body-checked a six-foot-four defenseman into the boards without blinking, is standing in the hall with flowers like a rejected Bachelor contestant.

“Baby,” I say louder now, not caring who hears. “I’m not good at this, okay? At whatever this is between us. But you make me want to be. And if you think for one second that picture changes anything about the way I look at you, you’re out of your mind.”

Still nothing.

I set the lilies down carefully against her doorframe, then sit with my back to it like the world’s most desperate idiot. “Fine. Don’t open up. But I’m staying here until you do. Practice be damned. Coach’ll chew me out, and I’ll still sit right here on this disgusting carpet because you’re worth it.”

And that’s the humiliating truth: Rupi Kapoor has me on my knees, and she doesn’t even have to try.