Play It Cold

There are bad parties, and then there are Sigma Chi on a Friday night levels of bad.

It was the kind of chaos that made you question your life choices the moment you walked through the door.

The music was loud enough to make my ribs vibrate like a tuning fork, the bass pulsing through my bones. The floor was suspiciously sticky in patches I did not want to investigate too closely. Somewhere in the crowd, someone let out a victorious whoop, and something glass shattered.

Someone had already spilled bright red juice—or punch?—on my favorite boots. Not that I was bitter.

I pressed a drink into the hand of my best friend, Amara.

“Drink.”

“I don’t want—”

“It’s mostly juice. Barely toxic.”

She stared down at the cup like it might bite her, then took a reluctant sip. Her face twisted instantly. “This is disgusting.”

“Right? But if you drink enough, you won’t care anymore.”

She gave me a half-hearted eye roll. “You’re a menace.”

“And you love me for it.” I looped my arm through hers.

We started weaving through the crowd, Amara clinging to my arm like a lifeline as we dodged a couple making out against the stair railing and a guy attempting to do a keg stand in the hallway. The air was thick with vape clouds, spilled beer, and too much body spray. Someone’s playlist had hit a remix of something aggressively auto-tuned, and the beat felt like it was trying to rearrange my organs.

“Gosh, this place smells like teenage regret,” I muttered.

“Probably because it’s soaked into the walls,” Amara replied.

We made it to the kitchen, which was somehow both the most crowded and the most boring part of the house. People stood shoulder-to-shoulder around the counters, nursing half-melted drinks and talking in the kind of raised voices you use when you’re trying to impress someone you barely know.

That’s when I saw him.

Leaning against the far counter like he belonged in a moody indie film.

Tall. Broad. Hair dark enough to look ink-black under the yellow overhead light. He wasn’t wearing his Ridgewell jacket like the rest of the hockey team. It just hung lazily over one arm, barely recognizable as team gear. But there was no mistaking it. He had that whole I could crush you without trying athlete build, and the expression to match.

A permanent scowl. Like the party was personally offending him.

I would’ve looked away. I should have.

But just as I started to steer Amara toward the drink table, a guy beside him noticed me and perked up.

“Hey! You’re Raven, right? We’re in Art Appreciation together—I’m Will,” he said, bright and friendly in a way that made me instantly suspicious. “You should meet my boy Caleb.”

He clapped the brooding statue on the shoulder.

So that was his name.

Caleb looked up slowly, his eyes locking with mine. Something passed between us—not heat, exactly, but something sharp and electric and cold. Like static shock from a winter sweater.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just stared like I stepped on his lawn.

I smiled anyway, tight and polite. “I think I’m good, thanks.”

“Come on,” Will urged. “You two would hit it off.”

Caleb raised a brow. Not the intrigued kind. The what-the-hell-is-this-creature kind.

“She’s not my type,” he said flatly. “I prefer people who don't make me feel like I need earplugs.”

I blinked. “Wow.”

Will laughed awkwardly.

“No offense,” Caleb added.

“No offense?” I echoed, voice syrup-sweet. “You’re not mine either. If he’s always this charming,” I said to Will, “I’d rather be single forever.”

Then I spun on my heel, grabbed Amara’s hand like she was a getaway car, and walked out of the kitchen like I hadn’t just been low-key insulted by a human glacier.

The audacity of that look. Like I was too loud. Too much. Too… Raven.

I told myself he wasn’t worth the energy.

Which made it really awkward when, a month later, I walked into the Ridgewell Sports Complex to start my new gig as the student manager for the men’s hockey team.

And guess who was the first player I saw when I stepped into the locker room?

Yup.

Mr. Robot-in-skates himself.

Caleb Tan.

He was exactly where I didn’t want him to be.

Right inside the Ridgewell Mens’ Ice Hockey team locker room, standing like he owned the oxygen, mid-conversation with another player as I walked in. He looked… the same. Unfortunately. That same stone-carved expression, same stupidly good bone structure, jersey half-on like he couldn’t be bothered to finish getting dressed.

His gaze flicked up when the door creaked behind me.

There was a split second where I genuinely hoped he wouldn’t recognize me. That I could be just another face, another student worker with a clipboard and a task list.

No such luck.

“You,” he said flatly. Not a question. Just… judgment.

I exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of my clipboard tighter. “Wow. I was hoping that was your evil twin. I’m not that lucky, I guess.”

The air in the locker room thickened, tension stretching between us like invisible fishing line.

“Great,” he muttered, like he’d just been assigned to babysit a golden retriever for the semester.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again just to sigh. “Trust me, I’m not thrilled either. But I’m here to work, not flirt, so we’ll survive.”

His brow lifted. Barely. “You sure?”

“Positive,” I snapped. “I have taste.”

A few of the guys had gone quiet. I caught Will in the corner of my eye, looking somewhere between panicked and amused.

I stepped further in, trying to ignore the way a few heads turned toward me. Great. First day on the job, and I was already the center of attention—for all the wrong reasons.

“I’m Raven,” I said, voice professional, clipped. “New student manager. I handle team logistics, equipment, and apparently, attitude rehab.”

A low whistle came from the corner. Someone muttered, “This’ll be fun.”

Caleb didn’t laugh. He just took a slow sip from his water bottle like this was all deeply beneath him.

“You’re serious?” he asked.

“No, I’m here for the vibes,” I replied. “Obviously I’m serious. Believe it or not, I have better things to do than stalk your brooding behind across campus.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a piece of abstract art he didn’t quite get but was trying to tolerate.

“Just… stay out of the way,” he said eventually.

I smiled, sharp and bright. “Aw. Is that how you ask for help? You might want to workshop your tone before your next group project.”

Coach Halder’s voice rang out from the hallway, snapping the room back to motion. “Let’s hustle, boys! Tan, gear up!”

Caleb turned away without another word.

I stood there for a second longer than I meant to, heart thudding too hard in my chest. Not because of him, obviously. Just… adrenaline. First day jitters. Proximity to extreme rudeness.

I shook it off.

Fine. If this semester was going to be a disaster, I could handle it. I survived worse. I survived Sigma Chi on a Friday night.

Caleb Tan didn’t scare me.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t suddenly very invested in making his life just a little more difficult.

My first official day wasn’t supposed to start with mortal enemies and testosterone fog, but hey—Ridgewell wasn’t paying me in peace and quiet.

I spent the next hour doing exactly what I was hired for: organizing gear, checking rosters, and pretending I didn’t feel Caleb’s eyes on me every time I crossed the room. He never said anything else, but he didn’t have to. His silence had volume. Judgy, annoyed volume.

At one point, I bent down to grab a water crate, and he walked by just close enough to mutter, “You might want smaller shoes. You trip a lot.”

I straightened up so fast I nearly knocked into him. “That’s funny. I was just thinking you might want a personality.”

He smirked—an actual smirk—and kept walking.

Will caught my eye from across the bench line, mouthing something like what did you do to him? I shrugged. Existing, apparently.

After practice, I stayed behind to clean up the leftover tape scraps, sweaty towels, and the tragic remains of a protein bar someone had crushed into the floor. Half the team had already filtered out when Caleb passed by me again, this time without a word. Just a glance. Like I was part of the scenery. Like I was beneath his notice.

And maybe that shouldn’t have bugged me as much as it did, but it did.

It wasn’t just that he was rude. It was how effortlessly he tuned me out. Like I wasn’t worth the effort. Like I was noise.

So, yeah, I took a little longer than necessary tidying up the gear shelf. Lined the helmets perfectly. Re-coiled the stick tape. Rearranged the sock bins.

Because if I couldn’t make Caleb Tan respect me yet, I was at least going to make this locker room run like a freaking luxury hotel.

The second practice was worse.

Not because I was bad at the job—I wasn’t. I already cleaned out the gear closet, sorted the equipment roster by player, and scheduled laundry pickups with military precision. I even fixed the broken shelf in the skate dryer room with duct tape and sheer will.

No, the problem was the ice captain, Caleb Tan.

Apparently, he decided a truce was optional.

“Velasquez,” he called as I passed by, arms full of towels. “You put my gloves in the wrong bin.”

I didn’t even slow down. “Then I guess you’ll live with mild inconvenience. Tragic.”

“They’re custom-molded.”

I turned back, giving him my best customer service smile. “And clearly labeled. Try reading next time.”

His eyes narrowed. “I did. They were under ‘Tan, Caleb.’ Should’ve been ‘Tan, Captain.’”

A snort escaped before I could help it. “Oh, wow. Do you want a crown with that title, or just a monogrammed towel?”

Someone choked on laughter in the background. Will, probably. Or Kyle. One of the guys who didn’t mind me being there.

Caleb didn’t laugh. Of course not.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, “if you’re going to do the job, do it right.”

“And if you’re going to complain, try not sounding like a spoiled houseplant.”

That one earned a few oofs from the locker room peanut gallery.

He stared at me for a second, like he couldn’t decide whether to snap back or walk away. Then he chose the third option: stoic silence and a slow shake of his head as he peeled off his jersey and tossed it into the laundry bin.

I hated how effortless he made brooding look.

I hated even more that I noticed.

Later that day, I found out he emailed the assistant coach to “clarify the expectations for the student manager role.” I also found out because the assistant coach CC’d me in the response, which was a very diplomatic way of saying chill, Tan. She’s doing fine.

So I printed out the email, highlighted the part that said I was “exceeding expectations,” and tacked it to the bulletin board outside the locker room with a smiley face sticker.

Petty? Maybe.

Satisfying? Deeply.

I was just beginning to enjoy the small victory when Caleb walked by, glanced at the board, then at me.

“Nice sticker,” he said dryly.

“Thanks,” I replied. “It’s for people who read.”

He shook his head again, but there was the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. Barely there. Almost invisible.