Chapter 5: Setting the Lines

Eve stared at her phone screen, the text message from her father burning into her retina.

Move your things into his penthouse permanently by tonight.

"What is it?" Terry asked, noticing the sudden stiffness in her posture. He took a sip of his black coffee, his grey eyes tracking her expression with a sudden alertness.

Without a word, Eve turned the phone around and slid it across the marble café table.

Terry read the screen, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the message. He let out a low, dark whistle, tossing the phone back to her. "Well, your old man doesn't waste any time, does he?"

"This wasn't part of the initial discussion," Eve said, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper so the patrons at the next table couldn't hear. "The gala, yes. The public appearances, fine. But living together? I have an apartment. I have a life."

"You also have a herd of paparazzi currently waiting outside that apartment," Terry countered smoothly, leaning forward. His large frame blocked her from the view of the window, creating a sudden, strange wall of privacy between them. "Think about it, Brooks. If the media catches you slipping out of your place at three in the morning while we're supposedly madly in love, the whole story falls apart. My captaincy is gone, and your analytics department gets defunded."

Eve hated that he was right. Her analytical brain hated losing control even more. "I don't like my space being compromised."

"It's a five-bedroom penthouse," Terry said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Trust me, you won't even have to look at my ugly face if you don't want to. You take the east wing. I’ll stay in the west. We only overlap when we're leaving for the rink."

Eve took a slow, deep breath, evaluating the risks. Her career was on the line. Her independence from her father depended entirely on the success of this season's data rollout. If she had to share a roof with an arrogant athlete to protect her future, she would adapt.

"Fine," she said, looking him dead in the eye. "But we establish ground rules. Immediately."

"I'm listening," Terry said, amused by her intensity.

"Rule number one: My bedroom is off-limits. Completely. If you so much as breathe near the door frame, the deal is off."

"Easy. I don't sleepwalk," Terry shrugged.

"Rule number two: No guests," Eve continued, her voice firm. "Specifically, no female guests. I am not navigating your roster of hockey groupies while I am trying to eat my breakfast."

Terry let out a sharp, genuine laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Groupies? Wow, Brooks. Is that what you think of me?"

"I've read your PR file, Terry. You change target demographics faster than the team switches lines," she said flatly. "And rule number three: We keep our professional lives separate when we are inside that apartment. I am your analyst at the rink, and your fake girlfriend for the media, but at home, we are ghosts to each other."

Terry’s smirk faded slightly, replaced by a thoughtful, evaluating look. He tapped his thumb against his coffee mug, staring at her for a long beat. "Ghosts. Got it."

By eight o'clock that evening, the reality of the arrangement hit.

Terry's private security team had packed up Eve's essential belongings from her apartment, successfully evading a dozen photographers stationed at her gate. Now, three large suitcases stood in the grand entryway of Terry’s luxury penthouse.

The apartment was dark, save for the ambient city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The silence was heavy, broken only by the hum of the city below.

Eve stood by her bags, suddenly feeling the weight of the massive, unfamiliar space. For the first time, the reality of her situation settled in. She was a lesbian hiding from her billionaire family, living in secret with the city’s biggest straight sports icon.

"Hey," a low voice called out from the darkness of the kitchen.

Eve turned. Terry was standing by the island, illuminated by the soft glow of the refrigerator light. He had a glass of water in his hand. He wasn't wearing his usual cocky armor; he just looked tired, the shadows under his grey eyes showing the true toll the media circus was taking on him.

"Your room is ready," Terry said, nodding toward the hallway on the left. "I left the keys to the private elevator on the counter. You don't have to worry about the lobby attendants seeing you come and go."

"Thank you," Eve said softly, her defensive walls lowering just a fraction.

Terry took a sip of his water, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he set the glass down. "Look, Brooks... I know this isn't what you wanted. But we're in the box together now. Let's just survive the season."

Eve looked at him, realizing for the first time that beneath the brash, violent captaincy, Terry Wilde was just as terrified of losing his life's passion as she was.

"Goodnight, Terry," she said, grabbing the handles of her suitcases.

"Night, Eve," he murmured.

As she walked down the long, quiet hallway to her new room, Eve realized her foolproof playbook had just entered a very unpredictable zone.