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“Because,” I pulled the door open, looking down at her perfectly messy hair and the oversized shirt she wore—my shirt—falling over her bare thighs. “That’s the polite thing roommates do,” I practically growled at her, too distracted by the sight of her wearing that shirt. “Turn around, Ariella.”

Her dainty nose scrunched in confusion at the command, oblivious to the fact that I wanted to wrap my arm around her waist and throw her on my bed.

“First of all, we’re not roommates.”

“We are.”

“We’re not. And why?” she argued, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement pressed my shirt closer to her body, and I realized she wasn’t wearing a bra.

I braced an arm on the doorframe, leaning close enough to catch a faint whiff of her coconut scent. “Because you’re wearing my shirt.”

“Well, no shit, Sherlock. You knew this.” She rolled her eyes, but I caught the darkening of the apples of her cheeks.

“Yeah, but I forgot I’d given you one of my college hockey shirts—one that has my last name on the back—and I want to see how you look with it.” I twirled a finger, indicating I wanted to see her from behind.

And bent over.

She turned her head, trying to read over her shoulder the letters plastered there. “It doesn’t say, Langley,” she said as I physically moved her where I wanted as she tried to read the back of her shirt like a cat chasing its tail, but I stopped and bit down on my lip when I saw it.

Thatcher

Fuck. I got now why some of the guys on the team insisted their partners wear their jerseys.

“I didn’t go by Langley in college,” I said, still distracted.

God, she was beautiful in the morning, too. I doubted there was ever a time she wasn’t gorgeous, if I was being honest.

“Is that why the guys never call you by your last name?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I scratched at the back of my neck. “I played under Thatcher my whole life since it’s my mom’s maiden name, but uh, when my dad found me again, he insisted I play under the Langley name. Carry on the legacy.” My stomach turned like it did every time I thought about this subject.

Her eyes narrowed, a look of irritation passing over her face, and my chest ached at the idea of disappointing her.

Not living up to the expectations of the people I cared about was my worst fear. One night, after too much whiskey, I’d told Christian I thought my dad left because I wasn’t good enough. Fucker read me the riot act about how that wasn’t true, but that seed of doubt took root years before, and I didn’t think I’d ever rid the soil of those gangly threads.

Being a disappointment…it was my Achilles heel.

Now Ari had managed to make it onto my short list of people I cared for, and what she thought mattered.

“Did he ask you if that’s what you wanted?” Her tone was laced with irritation.

“What?” The question caught me off guard. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. She stood there, hands firmly on her hips, radiating so much attitude and waiting like she would pry the answer out of me if she had to.

“Uh…no,” I admitted, finally. “He just said—” I cut myself off, not wanting to recount my dad’s exact words, knowing it wouldn’t help his case. “Anyway, let’s eat before we’ve got to go,” I mumbled, deflecting.

Ari’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, I thought she’d push it further. My whole body tensed, bracing for whatever she’d say next. For years, I’d defended my dad against everything, keeping him off-limits in conversation with anyone, especially with my mom. Understandably, what he’d done to her was shitty, but my stomach soured every time I thought to say something bad about the man. The idea of hearing Ari criticize him… I wasn’t sure how I’d react.

The proverbial blow I’d prepped for never came. Instead, Ari gave a curt nod, turned on her heel, and marched away toward the kitchen, yelling out over her shoulder.

“I hope your fridge is stocked better than your drink one is, Thatcher. I’m cooking you huevos rancheros.”

I trailed after her, fighting a grin at her casual use of my name.

“So, does this mean you’re accepting the roommate title?” I teased, watching her move through the kitchen like she belonged there.

She looked back at me with a smirk, rolling her eyes as she opened the fridge. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m just borrowing your kitchen—and maybe a few eggs. If I were your roommate, there’d be a dresser stuffed with leggings and sports bras, and you’d find ten different bottles of Tapatío in the pantry.”

I chuckled, leaning against the counter, watching her with that stubborn, determined look on her face as she gathered ingredients.