The Jersey Fit

Arianna

The first thing I noticed about Dawson Rhodes was that he was staring at me. It wasn't the kind of lingering, creepy gaze that makes your skin crawl, and it wasn't even the subtle, calculated kind. He was just staring—point-blank and unashamed, like he’d completely forgotten there were forty other students crammed into the lecture hall with us.

I frowned, shifting in my seat to get a better look at him. He didn’t look away. Instead, he mirrored my expression with a smug, lopsided frown of his own, then casually lifted his coffee cup in a mocking, tiny salute.

*What the hell?*

I whipped my head around, scanning the rows behind me to see if maybe he was looking at someone else. Nothing. Just bored students and empty desks. I looked to my left, then my right. Still nothing. When I turned back to face him, he was wearing a full-blown smirk.

*Asshole.*

I rolled my eyes and yanked my attention toward the front of the room, forcing myself to stare at the whiteboard. The guest speaker was mid-sentence, droning on about the ethical nuances of sports journalism, but my brain was stuck on the hockey captain sitting three rows over. I tried to push the thought out of my head, but it was like trying to stop a tidal wave. It wasn't just because he was hot, though that was certainly part of the problem. Dawson Rhodes was annoyingly, frustratingly attractive. He had that whole six-foot-something, messy-dark-hair aesthetic down to an art form, and a smile that had probably wrecked more than a few lives during his time at Westbrook. As the captain of the hockey team and a lock for the NHL draft, he was a campus celebrity, a guy every girl on campus knew by name. Including me. But just because I knew who he was didn't mean I wanted him staring at me like I was the only thing in the room worth looking at.

The second the professor dismissed us, I was already shoving my laptop into my bag, desperate to escape. I made it to the aisle, moving toward the exit, but I didn't make it to the door.

“Arianna.”

I froze. *No. Absolutely not.*

I took a slow breath and turned around, my boots scraping against the linoleum. Dawson stood a few feet away, his heavy hockey bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. Up close, he was somehow even bigger, a wall of muscle and restless energy that felt completely unfair to be around this early in the day.

“Yeah?” I asked, keeping my voice clipped.

His mouth twitched, that annoying smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “You leaving already?”

I blinked, genuinely baffled. “Class is over, Dawson.”

“I noticed.”

“Then why are you asking?”

His grin widened, deepening the dimples I refused to find charming. “No reason.”

“Okay,” I said, turning on my heel to walk away again.

“Arianna.”

I stopped, my grip tightening on my bag strap. “What?”

“You never answer my texts.”

My head snapped around so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “What texts? I don’t even have your number.”

He looked genuinely offended, his brow furrowing. “I’ve texted you three times.”

My eyebrows shot up. “You don't have my number, Dawson. I’ve never given it to you.”

His silence lasted exactly one second before he scoffed. “Sure I do.”

“What?”

“You gave it to me.”

“I definitely didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Dawson, stop.”

“Arianna, start.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, and he didn't even blink, just narrowed his eyes right back. It should have been infuriating. It should have been a sign that he was just another arrogant jock playing a game. Unfortunately, it was just… magnetic.

“Show me,” I challenged.

Without a second of hesitation, he pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbed the screen, and held it out for me to see. My jaw hit the floor. There it was—my number, plain as day. Saved under a contact name that made my blood boil.

*Ari ❤️*

“What the hell is that?” I pointed at the screen, my face heating up.

His eyes flicked to the contact name, and he looked entirely unbothered. “Oh.”

“'Oh'? That’s all you have to say?”

“Yeah.”

“Dawson, why is there a heart?”

He looked at me with genuine confusion, like I was asking why the sky was blue or why water was wet. “Because I like hearts.”

I just stared at him. He stared back, the silence stretching between us until I finally broke, letting out a sharp, incredulous laugh. There was no way this was real life. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”

His gaze softened, the intensity of it shifting into something much more dangerous. “Maybe.”

For some reason, my stomach did a slow, treacherous flip. It was annoying, it was stupid, and it was absolutely not allowed to happen. I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder, trying to regain some semblance of control.

“Anyway,” I muttered.

“Anyway.”

I pointed vaguely toward the hallway. “I have somewhere to be.”

He nodded, not moving an inch. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Neither of us moved. We just stood there in the emptying classroom, the air feeling suddenly too thin. Finally, Dawson stepped backward, breaking the standoff.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

I frowned. “No, you won’t.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Press conference after practice.”

My stomach dropped right through the floor. *Crap.* I’d completely forgotten. The athletic department had put me on the beat to cover the hockey team’s season, and that meant I was stuck with him. Starting tonight.

Dawson’s grin widened, confirming he’d known exactly what he was doing all along. “See you tonight, Ari.”

My pulse skipped a beat. *Ari.* Nobody called me that. It was a nickname I’d never used, but hearing it from him felt… jarringly nice. Annoyingly so. I hated it.

“Don’t call me that,” I warned, but he was already turning, walking away with that easy, athletic stride.

“See you tonight, Ari,” he called back over his shoulder.

“Dawson!” I shouted, but he just laughed, his voice echoing down the hallway.

And for reasons I absolutely couldn’t explain, even as I stood there fuming, I found myself smiling.

That night, I walked into Westbrook Arena with my notebook in hand and exactly zero patience left for hockey players. The place was alive, buzzing with the kind of frantic, high-octane energy only a Division I rink could generate. Players were already cutting through the ice, blades carving deep, rhythmic grooves, while the sound system pumped rock music that vibrated in my chest.

It was chaotic, and it was beautiful. Somewhere in the blur of skates and jerseys, Dawson Rhodes was cutting through the defense, moving with a speed that made everyone else look like they were standing still. I hated how good he looked doing it. I hated the way the light caught his hair, the way he controlled the game, and I especially hated that I was standing here watching him instead of doing literally anything else.

The final whistle blew, signaling the end of practice, and the players drifted toward the bench, shedding helmets and wiping sweat from their brows. I looked down at my notebook, trying to force my brain back into professional mode.

When I looked up, Dawson was standing directly in front of me.

He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his hair damp and matted against his forehead, and his cheeks flushed with heat. He was way too close. My space—and my sanity—felt completely compromised.

“Hi, Ari,” he said, his voice raspy from the workout.

I let out a long, heavy sigh. “What do you want, Dawson?”

His eyes dropped to my notebook, scanning the page. “You writing nice things about me in there?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Nope. Nothing nice.”

“What’d you write then?”

I snapped the notebook shut, the sound echoing in the nearly empty arena. “Classified.”

He laughed, a low sound that sent a shiver down my spine. Then, his gaze swept over me. It wasn't the quick, dismissive glance most guys gave me; it was slow, methodical, and careful, like he was actually cataloging every detail. My chest tightened in a way I didn't want to analyze. Most people looked right through me, but Dawson? He made me feel like I was under a microscope, and for once, I didn't want to run.

His eyes found mine again, and the noise of the arena—the distant shouting of players, the hum of the cooling system, the lingering music—seemed to just vanish. It was just him.

Then, he offered me a smile. It wasn't the cocky smirk from class; it was soft, quiet, almost like a secret.

“Good,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

I blinked, dazed. “What?”

He held my gaze, his expression unreadable. “You’re even prettier when you’re mad.”

My brain went completely offline. Before I could process the words or force my mouth to function, Dawson winked, turned, and skated away, leaving me frozen beside the glass, staring after him—and, God help me, smiling like an idiot.