The Rival Rule

*Book 3 in the Campus Rules series*

Piper

I hate hockey houses.

That isn’t dramatic hyperbole meant to get a rise out of people. It’s just cold, hard data.

The exact second I step across the threshold of the Pennridge hockey house—having officially dragged the last of my life into my campus apartment only three hours prior—I am violently assaulted by three things simultaneously: the stale, grease-heavy stench of cheap pepperoni pizza; the booming, wall-shaking frequency of male shouting; and the immediate, overwhelming instinct to pivot on my heel and sprint toward the nearest quiet corner of the university library.

Hallie materializes at my elbow, a canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder. She is wearing Cam Daniels’s oversized Pennridge Hockey hoodie like it’s a piece of emotional branding, the hem swallowing her denim shorts completely.

“This is going to be fun,” she says, her eyes bright with the kind of optimism that usually precedes a natural disaster.

I look at her, deadpan. “Your definition of fun is deeply concerning, Hal.”

She grins, nudging her shoulder against mine. “Oh, come on. You love them.”

“I love you,” I correct her, stepping over a stray, mud-caked sneaker that has been abandoned in the entryway. “That is the sole reason I am currently inhaling oxygen that is roughly seventy percent body spray and thirty percent regret.”

From somewhere deeper in the labyrinth of the house, Dean’s voice thunders up the stairs. “WHO THE HELL PUT MY PROTEIN SHAKE IN THE FREEZER?”

A beat of silence passes before Cam’s voice bellows back from the kitchen, dripping with pure disgust. “WHO THE HELL MAKES A CHOCOLATE-BROCCOLI PROTEIN SHAKE, DEAN?”

Another pause. Heavy. Contemplative.

Then Dean: “ATHLETES, CAM. PERFORMANCE ATHLETES.”

I stare at Hallie, raising an eyebrow.

Her smile only widens. “See? Entertainment.”

“Fungus is also technically alive and capable of growth,” I dryly note, adjusting the strap of my purse. “That doesn’t mean I want to cohabitate with it.”

Hallie just laughs, looping her arm securely through mine so I can’t make a break for the front door, and drags me further into the belly of the beast.

The living room is exactly the kind of chaotic terrain I expect from a house entirely populated by college athletes who have never discovered the utility of a coat rack. It’s an absolute minefield of discarded turf shoes, backward baseball caps, and worn-out hoodies. In the center of the room sits a massive sectional couch that has clearly witnessed several minor crimes and at least one undeclared war. A ridiculously oversized flat-screen TV is mounted above a faux-stone fireplace, and right next to it hangs a massive whiteboard.

My eyes track to the dry-erase marker scrawled across the top of it.

*DYLAN VS. PIPER: THE DENIAL ERA.*

I stop dead in my tracks. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp, irritated hiss.

Slowly, deliberately, I turn my head toward Hallie.

She winces, her shoulders creeping up toward her ears. “That was definitely Dean.”

“Dean has a death wish.”

“Dean has several,” she agrees softly. “Most of them involve Dylan catching him writing on that board.”

The boys are scattered across the living room like a highly coordinated, gym-sponsored infestation. Cam is stretched out on the far end of the sectional, his entire face lighting up the moment Hallie walks into view. Next to him, Brady is settled beside Annie, one heavy arm draped casually over her shoulders. He looks exceptionally smug for a guy who, up until a few months ago, explicitly claimed that romantic feelings were a massive inconvenience to his training schedule. Dean is currently lying completely upside down in a battered armchair, his legs dangling over the backrest as he shoves handfuls of chips into his mouth.

And then there’s Dylan.

Dylan Rhodes is leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, a half-empty bottle of water dangling from his fingers. He wears the exact same expression he always adopts the moment I walk into a room—a tightly controlled, slightly exhausted grimace. Like I’m a complex mathematical equation he’s been forced to solve against his will.

His eyes find mine. They are cool, dark, and instantly annoyed.

I lift one hand, offering him a tiny, patronizing wave. “Rhodes.”

His jaw ticks, a faint shadow of stubble shifting along his face. “Piper.”

There it is. That voice. It’s low, flat, and entirely too attractive for its own good. I hate it on absolute principle.

Dean suddenly flips himself upright in the armchair so fast that a stray cascade of barbecue chips rains down onto the hardwood floor. He ignores them entirely. “Oh my God,” he whispers loudly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “The season premiere.”

“Do not call it that,” Dylan says, his tone dangerous.

Dean glances over his shoulder at the whiteboard. “Fine. Episode one.”

I point a finger directly at the plastic frame. “Erase that board, Dean, or I will use your favorite hockey jersey to clean the kitchen counters.”

Dean presses a dramatic hand to his chest. “You wound me, Piper. Deeply.”

“I’ll do significantly worse if you keep documenting my personal life in dry-erase marker.”

Cam lets out a sharp laugh from the couch, pulling Hallie down onto his lap the second she gets close enough. She kisses his cheek affectionately, and Dylan’s expression immediately morphs into one of profound psychological pain.

“It’s been months, Dylan,” Hallie says without even looking at her brother, her fingers tangling in Cam’s hair. “You have to stop making that face.”

“I know how long it’s been,” Dylan mutters, taking a slow sip from his water bottle. “Unfortunately, I still have working eyes.”

Cam grins, flashing a row of straight white teeth. “Still love you, man.”

“I tolerate you because my sister hasn’t complained about you yet.”

“Basically family.”

“Don’t push your luck, Daniels.”

I watch the exchange for a fraction of a second longer than I intend to. It’s always strange seeing this side of him. Dylan is entirely different when it comes to Hallie. He’s still grumpy, still fiercely overprotective in that quiet, intense way of his, but there’s a softness underneath the armor. He’s the kind of guy who would let the entire world burn to the ground as long as he could guarantee his sister had a jacket to shield her from the smoke.

It’s annoying. I prefer my judgments of people to be entirely uncomplicated, and Dylan Rhodes keeps muddying the narrative.

Dylan catches me studying him. His dark brows furrow, his gaze narrowing under the low lighting of the living room. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m observing,” I correct smoothly, crossing my arms over my chest. “There’s a distinct psychological difference.”

“It looks exactly the same from where I’m standing.”

“No, staring is what you do when you’re attempting to intimidate people because you possess the emotional range of a locked equipment closet.”

Dean chokes on a chip, letting out a wheezing cough into his fist. Brady makes a quiet, amused sound in the back of his throat, leaning his head back against the cushions to watch the show.

Dylan’s eyes narrow into tiny slits.

Hallie sighs, burying her face against Cam’s neck. “And we’re off. Right on schedule.”

Dylan takes one slow, deliberate step out of the kitchen doorway, fully entering the living room space. He is massive—broad shoulders, a chest that looks like it was built out of solid granite, and a quiet, imposing presence that usually makes people clear a path for him. “Do you always make a habit of insulting people in their own homes, Piper?”

“Only when they make it exceptionally easy for me.”

“This isn’t even my house. I live in the apartments down the street.”

“Yet somehow, you still manage to act like you own every square inch of the room.”

Cam leans back, looking thoroughly delighted by the entire interaction. Dean leans over to Brady, whispering loudly, “She came swinging today. Put five bucks on the girl.”

Dylan’s gaze doesn’t waver from mine. Neither does mine from his.

That’s the fundamental thing about Dylan Rhodes. He is a guy who fully expects the rest of the world to back down the moment he pushes. Probably because, ninety-nine percent of the time, they actually do. He has that whole quiet, dangerous elite-athlete aura working in his favor. The sharp jawline, the steady voice, the dark eyes that make weaker people instantly rethink every decision that brought them into his orbit.

Unfortunate for him, I have never been particularly good at rethinking mine.

“You don’t even know me,” he says, his voice dropping into a lower register that vibrates straight through the floorboards.

"I know enough."

His mouth tightens into a hard, rigid line. "And what exactly do you think you know?"

I tilt my chin up, refusing to give an inch of ground. "That you’re the kind of guy who genuinely believes being quiet is a valid substitute for having actual emotional depth."

The entire room goes completely, devastatingly silent. The kind of silence that usually precedes a referee throwing a penalty flag.

Then, very slowly, Dean rises from his armchair like he’s witnessing a historical monument being erected in real time.

Dylan just stares at me. For one fleeting second, something strange flickers deep across his dark eyes. It isn’t the immediate, hot flare of anger I expected. It’s something infinitely worse.

Interest.

It’s tiny. Brief. A sudden, dangerous spark that is there and gone before I can properly analyze it.

My stomach does a strange, stupid little flip that completely defies the laws of biology.

No. Absolutely not. We are not doing that.

Dylan Rhodes is not interesting. He is irritating. There is a massive, cavernous difference between the two concepts. Probably.

Hallie clears her throat loudly, breaking the sudden tension stretching across the room like a rubber band. “Okay. Before this turns into a literal felony, Piper and I are going upstairs to unpack the rest of my things.”

“Excellent idea,” Dylan says, his voice flat.

I smile sweetly, injecting as much faux-warmity into my tone as humanly possible. “Oh, look at that. We actually agree on something. Truly horrifying.”

Dylan’s eyes flash under the brim of his hat.

Dean whispers, “I need a notebook. Someone get me a damn notebook.”

Hallie wraps a firm grip around my wrist before I can launch another verbal volley, bodily steering me toward the staircase. As we brush past Dylan to reach the steps, his scent hits me—clean soap, the crisp, lingering chill of cold ice, and something sharp and distinctly masculine.

Annoying. Deeply, profoundly annoying.

I keep my eyes locked straight ahead, focusing on the wooden steps. I do not look back. Not until we’re halfway up the staircase.

And honestly, the only reason I even turn around is because Dean’s voice booms through the foyer, loud and entirely unhelpful: “Dylan, why the hell are you watching her leave?”

I freeze on the step.

Hallie lets out a soft, sharp gasp beside me.

Slowly, against my own better judgment, I turn around to look down at the living room.

Dylan’s lethal glare instantly snaps from Dean straight up to me.

Caught. Completely, undeniably caught.

The living room downstairs instantly erupts. Cam bursts out laughing, throwing his head back against the couch. Brady covers his mouth with a hand, his shoulders shaking, while Annie’s eyes go completely wide. Dean is pointing an accusatory finger at Dylan like he’s just cracked a high-profile criminal investigation.

Dylan looks like he is actively calculating the legal ramifications of murdering everyone in the room.

I look down at him for one long, uninterrupted second, letting the silence stretch. Then, I let a slow, deliberate smile spread across my face.

“Careful, Rhodes,” I say, my voice carrying perfectly down the stairwell. “People might actually start to think you’re interested.”

His jaw ticks so hard a muscle shifts beneath the skin. “In making you leave? Absolutely.”

“Aw.” I tilt my head to the side, mocking him. “Look at that. You do have feelings after all.”

Hallie yanks my arm, dragging me up the remaining stairs and down the hallway before Dylan can formulate a response. But even as the door to her room shuts behind us, I can still hear Dean’s voice echoing from the first floor, loud, triumphant, and utterly thrilled:

“THE DENIAL ERA HAS OFFICIALLY BEGUN!”

And the absolute worst part of this entire disaster?

My heart is beating entirely too fast against my ribs. Not because I’m intimidated by Dylan Rhodes. I don’t scare easily, and a grumpy hockey captain certainly isn’t going to break my stride.

But I know a challenge when I see one. And Dylan Rhodes is currently standing downstairs, pretending with everything he has that I didn’t just become his absolute biggest problem.