Unplanned Assignment and the Puck's Allure
Cora had let out a sigh of relief, her shoulders sinking as she stared at her phone screen.
“That joke was lame. It would’ve been better if it had been the real thing.”
The next message arrived, and she typed back quickly, fingers flying across the keys.
“To finish the group project, we need to line up a schedule. You and I should watch a couple of movies or see a play together and discuss them, then write the report. I want to knock this out as fast as possible—what works for you?”
Tristan replied almost instantly.
“Sure. We need to pick a topic and set a time, so let’s meet up. Can you do tomorrow afternoon?”
“I have a shift at the pub tomorrow. I’ll probably be done around seven.”
“Then I’ll head over at the time that works for you.”
When Cora read Tristan’s message, her pupils widened just a little.
It was unexpected that the guy—the one everyone said was all ego and entitlement—would actually show up to the pub she worked at. Still, it made sense. He was the team captain, heading into the real hockey season soon. He’d want to wrap up loose ends before practice got too intense.
“Yeah, just like last time. Don’t forget the calendar thing.”
“I’m not worried. Since you said you wanted to see me, I have to make the trip.”
“Stop joking around.”
“Typing…”
“Photo.”
A few minutes later the notification popped up: Photo sent. Cora’s finger paused mid-swipe. What the hell had he just sent her?
A sharp feeling prickled the back of her neck.
For a split second she remembered the campus rumor she’d heard weeks ago: some random guy had sent a dick pic to a girl named Angela at the pub, and she’d screamed so loud the whole bar had heard. Everyone had laughed about it. Then someone mentioned that the hockey guys were… well, hockey guys. New experiences, wild parties, the usual chaos. Anal and threesomes supposedly counted as initiation rites at some of their gatherings.
But Tristan Lockwood? The golden boy who never seemed to lose at anything? The idea that he’d stoop to something that cheap felt ridiculous.
Still, the fact that most of the varsity athletes treated the university like a playground for their hormones was common knowledge. And the hockey house parties always left a trail of rumors the next morning—rumors that never seemed to mention Tristan at the center of them.
She opened the message again.
The photo that filled the screen was not what she expected at all.
A fluffy white cat with huge, round blue eyes and soft cappuccino-colored spots on its cheeks stared back at her. It looked like someone had taken a professional studio shot just for her.
“Aw… that’s so cute.”
She zoomed in, tracing the cat’s chubby nose with her fingertip. The notification chimed again.
“I’m the one who adopted it.”
“Photo.”
The second picture showed Tristan in full hockey gear, cradling the cat against his chest like it weighed nothing. He was smiling down at it—actually smiling—with the same intense steel-blue eyes everyone warned her about. The protective, slightly rough edge that always seemed to roll off him was softened here. The contrast of his black hair against the cat’s snowy fur made the whole thing look like a magazine spread.
Cora let out a small laugh. “Well, well. Tristan Lockwood, cat dad? Who would’ve guessed? I figured you’d have some massive attack dog—Doberman or Rottweiler or something.”
She typed back before she could overthink it.
“Adorable. You don’t look anything like him, do you?”
The cat’s name was Biscuit.
“How’d you even end up with a cat?”
“Team fundraiser. Every year we do a calendar of rescue-cat photos. I was there taking shots during the photoshoot when the cat walked right up to me. He followed me everywhere after that, so I took him home.”
A guy who looked like he could bench-press a goalpost was adopting a kitten? Cora felt her defenses lowering again.
Maybe he wasn’t as terrifying as the rumors made him sound.
The vibration of another message interrupted her thoughts.
“It’s even cuter in person.”
“Typing…”
“Wanna come over and see for yourself?”
Cora’s stomach dropped. She stared at the screen, heart suddenly hammering. “Wanna come over”? That was classic Tristan—casual, direct, and dripping with that signature cocky charm. But she refused to let her imagination run away with her.
“Later. I’ll show you then.”
“Whenever you want. I’m free right now.”
She narrowed her eyes, scrolling back to the earlier part of the conversation. The kitten adoption story had melted her a little, but now she was remembering why she’d been warned to stay away from the Lockwood heir. The cat was probably just another tool in his arsenal—something pretty to dangle in front of girls who got too close.
“Yeah, whatever. No point replying.”
She was about to toss the phone onto the bed when she paused. She really should save his number. After all, she was going to be stuck with him on a group project. Might as well have his contact info right there.
Her finger hovered over the contact list. Instead of using his name, she typed “Hazard” at the top of the note. A single reminder of how much trouble he was likely to cause.
Then she grabbed her shower stuff and headed for the shared bathroom.
The hot water felt good on her tired legs. She stood under the spray, eyes closed, humming a little under her breath as she worked the raspberry-scented shampoo through her hair.
Her phone kept lighting up on the sink counter with every new alert.
Hazard
“Biscuit is waiting for the day he meets Cora.”
“Photo.”
The new picture was of the white cat perched on Tristan’s broad shoulder, tail curled lazily, looking every bit the picture of innocent mischief.
Cora glanced at the clock. Seven o’clock was coming fast.
She finished rinsing her hair, stepped out, and wrapped a towel around herself.
Across campus, the sports pub was just starting to fill up for the evening rush. Cora wiped down the bar with quick, practiced strokes, already counting down the minutes until she could clock out.
Her replacement crew arrived just before seven. She waved goodbye to Angela and the others, grabbed her bag, and stepped outside into the cool night air.
She checked her phone again.
“Why aren’t you here yet?” 7:06 p.m.
No reply. She glanced at the time—7:12 now.
“Seven o’clock sharp and you’re already late? Fine. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
She called him. Straight to voicemail.
“Whatever. I’ll just message him and we’ll settle this tomorrow.”
She typed a quick text, then headed back toward the dorms, jaw set.
The group project was supposed to be simple—discuss a topic, watch something together, write a report. But if Tristan didn’t show up for the discussion part, she’d be stuck with nothing but a half-finished paper and a zero from the professor. She wasn’t about to risk her GPA for some arrogant hockey captain’s ego.
She remembered the old story about the hockey house—how all the guys lived there, close to campus, and how the whole place smelled like ice and sweat and teenage boys who thought the world revolved around them.
If he was still on campus right now, she could at least corner him tomorrow before classes started.
She quickened her pace toward the lights of the dorms.
Tomorrow, she’d figure it out.