Page 3 of Cold Front
I didn’t ask for a roommate. Hell, I didn’t even want one. But here he was, cheerful as a damn golden retriever, like he hadn’t just bulldozed into my carefully curated solitude. He’d barely been here an hour, and I already knew he was going to be a problem. Not intentionally, maybe. But problems rarely announce themselves with bad intentions.
He was… a lot. Too much energy, too much curiosity, too much of that nervous friendliness that seemed to demand a response I wasn’t in the mood to give. He asked questions like he thought we were going to bond over late-night beer runs or shared Spotify playlists. As if I had the bandwidth for that.
I didn’t.
Not with everything on my plate. Not with hockey breathing down my neck and my grades hanging on by a thread. Last semester was a mess—I tanked a couple classes and barely passed another. Honestly, if it weren’t for my therapist, I probably wouldn’t even still be at MU. She’d pulled strings, calling in favors to make sure I got this apartment and a shot at salvaging my GPA while on academic probation.
“I’m going to bat for you, Niall,” she’d said in one of those no-nonsense tones that made it impossible to argue. “Don’t let me down. But more importantly, don’t letyourselfdown.”
I owed her. And myself. Which meant staying focused. Hockey. Grades. Nothing else. Especially not a roommate who probably thought left-wing and right-wing were players who preferred different parts of a barbecue chicken.
I sat back on the couch, scrolling through my phone aimlessly, pretending Eli wasn’t fumbling around in the other room, unpacking or… whatever he was doing. I heard drawers opening and the faint rustle of clothes being shoved into place. He’d been polite, even self-deprecating, asking dumb questions earlier like his nervous smile would win me over. It wouldn’t. I couldn’t let it.
Eli was a distraction I couldn’t afford.
Still, I’d caught myself watching him out of the corner of my eye when he wasn’t looking. Something about him made it hard not to. He moved like he was still figuring out how to fit into this new space, but there was nothing small about him. He wasn’t loud, but he tried to be friendly, offering a smile that was a little too bright for someone who’d just left the familiarity of L.A. People weren’t that cheerful without a reason.
Whatever his deal was, I wasn’t getting involved.
I’d learned the hard way that letting people in was a mistake. Friends, girlfriends, teammates—it didn’t matter. At some point, they wanted more than I could give. They wanted to know why I was so distant, so closed off. They wanted explanations I didn’t owe them, so I’d stopped trying. Kept everyone at arm’s length where they couldn’t expect anything from me.
Eli wasn’t going to be any different.
The sound of his door opening pulled me from my thoughts. He stuck his head out, hesitating like he wasn’t sure if I’d bite his head off for speaking. “Uh, hey. Do we, like, share stuff in the kitchen? Or should I… get my own?”
“Your own,” I said without looking up. Short. To the point. Maybe he’d get the hint.
“Cool. Thanks.”
I waited for the door to click shut again, but it didn’t. Instead, he lingered. I could feel his gaze on me, almost like he was trying to figure me out.
“Anything else?” I asked, finally glancing up.
He shook his head quickly, his cheeks turning pink. “Nope. Just… yeah. Thanks.”
The door shut, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. This was going to be a long year.
But I’d dealt with worse. I could deal with him, too.
* * *
The sound of skates slicing across the ice hit my ears the second I stepped into the rink. Familiar. Grounding. It was one of the few places where things made sense. Out here, it was all about focus—something I could usually manage. Today, though? My head wasn’t in it. Too many distractions, and not enough time to deal with them.
“Caldwell!”
Assistant Coach Jared Rivers—better known asRookie Coachsince this was his first season with us—shouted from across the rink, snapping me out of my thoughts. He stood by the bench, clipboard in hand, his sharp gaze cutting through the morning fog like a slap to the back of the head. Even the cockiest rookie wouldn’t dare ignore that tone.
“Warm-ups! Let’s go!”
I nodded sharply, adjusting my gloves and stepping onto the ice. The chill hit me instantly, seeping through my gear and waking me up. Logan, our starting goalie, was already in the crease, tapping his stick against the posts in some kind of pregame ritual. Roman and Hunter, two of our forwards, were at the other end, firing pucks at the net with more aggression than necessary.
Micah, our left defenseman, skated by, his helmet tilted just enough to give me a smirk. “You look like you swallowed a puck, Cap. Long day already?”
I exhaled. “Just thinking.”
He let out a low laugh and skated off, leaving me to line up for drills. The guys knew better than to press when I wasn’t in the mood to talk. Most of the time, anyway.
Coach blew his whistle, and we started with laps, everyone settling into a rhythm. It should’ve been easy to tune out everything else—just skate, just focus—but my mind kept drifting. Back to Eli and his too-easy smile. Back to the suffocating pressure of needing to pull my grades out of the gutter. Back to my therapist’s voice, steady and firm:Don’t let yourself down, Niall.
