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*BOOK 2 in the Campus Rules series*
Cam
The first rule of being friends with Dylan Rhodes is so simple a preschooler could grasp it. It’s a foundational truth of our friendship, right up there with "don't miss a morning skate" and "always have each other's backs in a scrum."
Don’t touch his sister.
It’s an easy rule. An obvious rule. The kind of rule that any guy with a functioning brain stem and even a basic, primitive will to live should be able to follow without a single complication. I’ve spent years seeing photos of Hallie Rhodes on Dylan’s phone—grainy shots of a girl with braces or a blurry figure in a graduation gown. She was just "the sister." A concept. A protected entity.
Until today.
Because the second Hallie Rhodes walks into the hockey house kitchen, the entire universe shifts on its axis. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that should, by all accounts, swallow her whole. Instead, it somehow manages to emphasize the fact that the girl is packing a pretty impressive rack underneath the heavy cotton—a discovery that makes my brain stall out mid-thought. Her brown hair is a glorious, intentional mess on top of her head, and she has a smile that makes every survival instinct I possess quietly pack its bags, give me the finger, and leave the building.
And just like that? I’m dead. I’m a walking corpse. I’m a man who just checked himself into the boards at sixty miles per hour.
Dylan comes in behind her, looking every bit the overprotective caveman as he hauls her massive suitcase like it's a piece of light luggage. He scans the room, his eyes lingering on each of us with a warning that doesn't need to be spoken.
“This is Hallie,” Dylan says, his voice flat and territorial. He might as well have said, *This is a live grenade; don't look at it.*
It’s too late. The rest of us have already collectively watched my entire future burst into spectacular, unavoidable flames. I try to pull my gaze away, but as she turns to set her coffee down, the leggings she’s wearing leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. She’s sporting a round, perfect ass that should honestly be illegal in a hockey house, and for a split second, I completely forget how to inhale.
Dean’s mouth pops open, that familiar, chaotic spark lighting up his eyes as he prepares to say something that will undoubtedly get us all killed.
I point a finger at him immediately, my pulse hammering in my throat. “Don’t. Whatever is about to come out of your mouth, Dean, swallow it.”
Dean’s grin spreads anyway, wide and catastrophic. “Oh, I wasn’t going to say anything, Daniels. My lips are sealed.”
“Liar,” Brady mutters from the corner, where he’s currently tangled up with Annie on the loveseat. He’s looking at me with a mix of pity and amusement that I find deeply offensive.
Hallie’s eyes flick toward mine. It’s a big mistake looking back at her. A huge, tactical error. Because she looks amused. She doesn't look shy or intimidated by a room full of varsity athletes; she looks like she knows exactly what’s happening. She looks like she walked in here, took one look at my face, and somehow heard the four-alarm emergency sirens currently screaming inside my skull.
“You’re Cam, right?” she asks.
Her voice is like honey and silk, and it makes my brain melt. I should say yes. A normal, human response. One syllable. Extremely achievable for a man of my supposed intelligence. Instead, I find myself staring at her for half a second too long, my mouth slightly dry, until I feel Dylan’s eyes narrow into slits beside her.
Great. Excellent start, Cam. Really setting a high bar for yourself.
“Yeah,” I say finally, forcing my vocal cords to function. “That’s me. The one and only.”
Hallie smiles. It’s pretty. It’s too pretty. It’s the kind of "off-limits pretty" that gets a man buried in a shallow grave behind the practice rink by his own teammate.
“I’ve heard about you,” she says, her head tilting slightly as she studies me.
Dean makes a tiny, delighted sound that sounds suspiciously like a squeal. Dylan looks at her sharply, his posture stiffening. “From who? I don't recall giving you a dossier on my teammates.”
Hallie shrugs, looking completely and utterly innocent. “From you, obviously.”
“I don’t talk about Cam,” Dylan grumbles, shoving her bag toward the stairs.
“You complain about him constantly,” she corrects him, her eyes dancing with mischief. “There’s a difference.”
Brady lets out a loud, bark of a laugh, burying his face into Annie’s hair to muffle his delight. I lean back against the granite counter and force a grin onto my face, because that’s what I do. Cam Daniels does easy. He does funny. He does unbothered. He definitely does *not* do "instantly and dangerously attracted to his best friend’s little sister."
“Well,” I say, crossing my arms to hide the fact that my hands are a little unsteady. “I hope he at least mentioned my best qualities. My sparkling personality? My impeccable footwork?”
Hallie tilts her head, her gaze lingering on mine just a second too long for my heart's comfort. “He said you’re loud.”
“Accurate,” Dylan says, his voice like gravel.
Dean points a finger at me, joining in the execution. “And he said you’re emotionally needy. Like a golden retriever that hasn't been fed in a week.”
“Also accurate,” Brady adds from the couch, clearly enjoying my slow-motion demise.
I glare at all of them, but the sting is lost when Hallie laughs. And yeah. No. That laugh is a problem. It’s a serious, season-ending, career-terminating injury of a problem. It’s bright and genuine, and it makes the air in the kitchen feel a little too thin.
Dylan drops her bag near the bottom of the stairs with a heavy thud. “You can take my room while you’re here. I’ve already cleared out some space.”
Hallie frowns, her brows pulling together. “Where are you sleeping, Dyl?”
“Couch.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed for a week.”
“And you’re not sleeping on the couch,” Dylan says, his tone final. “End of discussion.”
“I’m literally an adult, Dylan. I can handle a sofa.”
“You’re my sister. It’s not happening.” Dylan gestures toward the living room like the couch personally failed a rigorous background check and was found wanting. “Dean once ate wings off it. Without a plate. Or a napkin.”
Dean lifts a hand in his defense. “In my defense, they were boneless. The mess factor was minimal.”
“That actually makes it worse,” Annie says, wrinkling her nose.
Hallie laughs again, and my eyes go to her before I can physically stop them. Dylan notices. Of course he notices. He has a sixth sense for anyone looking at his sister, and right now, his stare cuts toward me like a serrated blade. I immediately shift my focus to the fridge. It’s a fascinating fridge. Stainless steel. Very safe. No life-altering consequences for looking at a kitchen appliance.
I can see Hallie’s mouth twitch out of the corner of my eye. She saw me flinch. She saw the way I scrambled to look away from her. Wonderful. This girl is going to ruin me for sport, and she hasn't even been in the house for ten minutes.
“I can just stay in a hotel,” she suggests, looking back at her brother.
Dylan looks horrified. “Absolutely not. You’re staying here where I can see you.”
“Or I could stay with Annie?” Hallie glances at Annie hopefully. “If that’s not a huge imposition?”
Annie smiles warmly. “You can if you want, Hallie. We have plenty of room.”
Brady’s arm tightens around Annie’s waist instantly, his possessive streak flaring up. Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Careful, Hallie. Knox barely survived sharing Annie with her actual roommate. Adding a third person might send him into a coma.”
Brady flips him off without even looking away from Annie.
Hallie looks between Brady and Annie, her expression softening into something sweet. “You two are really cute.”
Brady looks immensely pleased with himself, while Annie blushes a deep, vivid pink. Dean points a finger at them, looking disgusted. “Don’t encourage them. They’re unbearable already. It’s like living in a Hallmark movie with more hockey gear.”
While the group continues to bicker and plan the week, Hallie drifts away from Dylan and toward the kitchen island. Toward me. She doesn't get too close—not enough to trigger Dylan’s internal alarm system—but she’s close enough that I suddenly become hyper-aware of everything about her. The subtle scent of her perfume—something like vanilla and rain. The slight curve of her smile. The fact that Dylan is standing ten feet away with murder literally written into his DNA.
Hallie reaches for a bottle of water sitting on the counter right beside me. Our fingers almost brush as she grabs it. Almost. It’s enough to make my pulse trip over itself like an idiot. Her eyes flick up to mine, dark and searching.
“You always this quiet, Cam?” she asks softly, her voice barely a murmur.
Oh. So she’s *dangerous* dangerous. She’s the kind of girl who knows exactly what she’s doing.
I force a grin onto my face, because it’s either that or I simply combust where I stand. “Only when I’m being actively threatened with a slow and painful death.”
Her gaze slides briefly toward Dylan, who is currently arguing with Dean about the wing incident. Then she looks back at me, her eyes dancing. “Smart.”
“I’m trying something new. Survival, mostly.”
Her smile widens, and it’s like a sunbeam hitting the room.
Dylan’s voice cuts through the air like a whistle at the end of a period. “Cam.”
I look over. He’s staring at me. His expression is flat, suspicious, and move-for-move deadly.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t.”
One word. That’s all he says. The entire room goes dead quiet. Dean looks like Christmas came early and he’s about to get a front-row seat to a disaster. Brady’s shoulders start shaking with suppressed laughter, and Annie covers her mouth with her hand.
Hallie blinks innocently, looking between us. “Don’t what, Dylan?”
Dylan doesn’t look at her. He keeps his eyes locked on mine, looking at me like I’m a raccoon he just caught trying to pry open a locked trash can in the middle of the night.
“Whatever he’s thinking,” Dylan says, his voice like iron.
I hold up both hands in a gesture of total surrender. “I’m thinking about breakfast, Dyl. That’s it. Purely caloric thoughts.”
“It’s three in the afternoon,” Brady points out.
“Dinner breakfast. It’s a concept. Expand your horizons, Knox.”
Dean nods enthusiastically. “It’s a valid concept. I support the pancakes.”
Dylan keeps staring. I stare back, maintainining a smile even though I’m fairly certain my soul has been removed and replaced with pure, unadulterated panic.
“I’m not thinking anything,” I lie.
Hallie leans one hip against the counter beside me, her shoulder just inches from mine. “Really?”
Her voice is quiet enough that only I can hear it. I let my eyes cut to hers for a split second. She’s smiling. It’s a tiny, secret, trouble-making smile that tells me she knows exactly how much of a mess I am.
And there it is. The exact second I know I’m doomed. Because Hallie Rhodes is not just Dylan’s little sister. She is Dylan’s little sister who knows exactly how off-limits she is—and I have a terrible feeling she’s going to enjoy making me remember it every single day she's here.
