The party at my house is loud in the way only college hockey parties get—bass rattling the windows, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, someone chanting our goalie’s name for no reason at all. I’d barely made it an hour before a freshman with terrible aim dumped a full can of beer down my back, laughing like he’d just invented comedy. So I retreat upstairs, peel off the soaked T-shirt, and tug on a clean one, jaw tight.

Helena Rivera flashes through my head without permission.

She’s downstairs. I saw her fifteen minutes ago at the kitchen island, laughing with Nathan—golden-retriever Nathan, my teammate, my buddy, the guy who thinks ordering spicy wings is a personality trait. He was leaned in too close. She was smiling, sharp and slow, like she knew exactly what she was doing. Jealousy is an ugly color on me, but there it was anyway.

Helena doesn’t do soft. She does fierce. Brazilian accent that curls around your throat, eyes that don’t flinch, a mean streak she doesn’t bother hiding. She became my twin sister’s best friend the night some asshole at a bar grabbed Mags and called her a whore. Helena broke his nose. I met her hours later at the station, paying bail with a credit card and a pulse that wouldn’t slow, watching her sit there—skirt torn, knuckles bruised, chin tipped up like she’d do it again.

Now she’s here. And she’s been seeing Nathan, which I tell myself is a problem because of her dad—Coach Rivera, head of our biggest rival—because information leaks and lines crossed and all that logical bullshit. Not because I want her for myself.

I head for the stairs, planning to rejoin the chaos, when I see her coming up.

She’s wearing a black skirt that hugs her hips and legs that go on forever. Her hair is long—ridiculously long—dark and glossy down her back. She freezes when she spots me, one brow lifting.

“Bathroom upstairs,” she says, like it’s already decided. “I’m not using the one that smells like regret.”

I step into her path without touching her, my body doing the talking. Close enough to feel her warmth. “Party rule,” I say. “Upstairs is off-limits.”

Her gaze flicks to my chest. Back to my mouth. “You going to arrest me too, Captain?”

My lips twitch. “Only if you punch someone.”

She leans in, voice low. “Tempting.”

We’re too close. Close like we always get when no one’s looking—my hand at her waist to move her through a crowd, her foot nudging my shin under a table, sparks that pretend to be accidents. I drop my voice. “Nathan’s downstairs.”

“I know.” A smile ghosts her mouth. “Is that why you’re blocking the stairs?”

“I don’t think he can handle you,” I say honestly.

Her eyes sharpen. “And you can?”

The question hangs between us, dangerous and sweet. Music thumps below, someone shouting my name. I exhale, step aside just enough to make a choice.