I Kissed the Hockey Captain (And Ran)

It was just under eleven in the evening. Chloe stared at the blinking cursor on the computer screen, feeling that the words in her mind were as empty as the blank document on the screen. She reached out and grabbed the last slice of pizza—it was cold, and the cheese had solidified into a glossy film—and took a mechanical bite.

Special offer on Tuesday: The large sausage pizza at Joey's Pizza for just $12.99 includes two liters of cola. The scholarship covers tuition and textbook fees—but not your appetite!

She sighed and shifted her focus back to Kant's *Fundamentals of the Metaphysics of Morals*. Just as the term "categorical imperative" began to blur before her eyes—

Bang!

A loud thud was followed by the crisp sound of glass shattering as something crashed into the living room window.

No, it was a collision through.

Chloe stood frozen in place, staring at the old double-glazed window. The lower pane of glass was cracked like a spider's web, with a perfect rugby-ball-shaped hole in the center. The cold wind of February howled as it blew in. On the floor, a brown leather rugby ball lay innocently amidst the shattered glass, slowly completing its final lap.

A deafening laugh erupted from next door—the man's laughter was hoarse, tinged with intoxication. The music was playing so intensely it seemed poised toblow the roof off; it was that kind of heavy metal rock with guitar distortion that was piercingly harsh.

"My God," Chloe murmured, setting down the cold pizza in her hand.

This is the third time this semester. The first time, a beer can smashed the poor potted geranium on her front porch. The second time, someone urinated on her lawn. Now, it's her window.

The scholarship is excellent, and tuition exemption is great. But to save a small amount on accommodation fees by staying in this dilapidated campus villa squeezed between the fraternity building and the football team dormitory? That could be a serious strategic mistake.

She took a deep breath, stood up, and stepped on the shattered glass on the floor, which creaked underfoot. She grabbed the woolen sweater from the sofa and wrapped it tightly around herself, then opened the front door.

The night air was cold as if cut by a knife. The house next door was brightly lit, and music poured out from every open window, sending a tingling sensation through her chest. On the lawn in the front yard stood five or six burly men in sportswear, holding beer cans. One of them stood facing away from her, exaggerating a passing motion, which sparked another round of laughter from the others.

"Hey!" Chloe shouted. Her voice rang out like a mosquito's cry amidst the music and laughter.

No one paid her any attention.

She raised her voice almost to a scream: "Hey!"

The man mimicking the pass turned around. It was Ethan—the football team's quarterback, the campus icon, the legendary "Rebel" —who was said to have earned this nickname after leading his team to a stunning comeback in the final two minutes during his freshman year. At that moment, his cheeks were flushed; his golden hair gleamed brilliantly under the porch lights, and he held a can of beer, wearing an overly radiant smile at her.

"Oh, hey!" he exclaimed, waving at her as if they were old friends who had known each other for years. "Sorry, sweetheart! I slipped!"

Chloe's stomach contracted sharply. "Sweetheart." She hated that term the most.

"Your ball," she said, pointing to the shattered window behind her, striving to keep her voice steady.

"It's now on the floor in my living room."

Ethan blinked, as if taking a moment to process the information. Then he smiled—a casual yet radiant smile, radiating an irresistible charm that seemed perfectly natural.

"Bad news. We'll have to pay compensation—I guarantee it," he said, taking a few steps toward her and stopping on the gravel path between the two lawns. "Are you okay? Did the glass hurt you?"

"I'm fine," her voice was flat and unemotional. "But there's an issue with my window, and also with the progress of my thesis tonight. Could you... leave your ball in your own yard?"

A teammate—absolutely massive in build, whom Chloe suspected to be the team's center—whistled. "Oh, Ethan, that little bookworm has a pretty temper!"

Ethan turned around and gave him a stern look, but when he turned back, his face still wore that casual smile.

"Don't pay attention to Mike—he's drunk." He took another step toward her, so close that Chloe could smell the mixture of beer and cheap cologne on him.

"To be honest, I'm really sorry. I'll have someone fix it tomorrow—I promise," he said, tilting his head toward her. His blue eyes appeared intensely focused under the dim light.

"What's your name, anyway?"

Chloe stared at him. Four years had passed. She had spent the entire four years at the same university and lived next door for one semester, yet he didn't even know her name.

"It doesn't matter," she said, turning to return inside.

"Please take the ball away, and then... turn down the music a bit. Someone wants to study."

"Hey, wait..."

Without waiting, she walked straight back into the room and slammed the door shut.

Leaning against the cold door panel, she could hear the muffled, distorted laughter coming from outside, along with Ethan's raised voice: "...That's quiteintense, isn't it?"

Chloe closed her eyes and silently counted to ten. Then she walked back to the living room and stared at the intruder on the floor. The rugby ball lay quietly among the shattered glass, like a silent accomplice. She bent down to pick it up—the leather was cold, and the seams were rough and prickly to the touch. She was about to straighten up—

The front door was pushed open.

Ethan stood at the door, his hand resting on the doorknob, his face bearing that casual expression of "I forgot something." He didn't knock. He didn't even ask if he could come in.

"My pizza—" he began, then his gaze fell on the pizza box still held in her other hand. Inside were three slices of completely cold pizza, with the oil frozen onto the surface of the cheese, looking utterly unappealing.

The next second, something happened.

Ethan stepped over the threshold in such speed that Chloe couldn't react. He reached out and precisely picked up the top slice of pizza from the box, his movements flowing effortlessly as if this were his own kitchen.

"Thank you. I happened to be hungry," he said, taking a large bite, blinking at her, then turning around. With one hand holding her pizza and the other clutching a football, he walked out leisurely and closed the door behind him.

The door closed with a click.

Chloe stood where she was, holding the pizza box that had suddenly become lighter, staring at the door that still swayed slightly. She could hear his footsteps fading into the distance and the new wave of deafening cheers and whistles erupting from the neighboring room.

A slice of pizza. He burst into her home and, without permission, stole a quarter of the discounted pizza worth $12.99.

"I can't believe it," she said to the empty living room filled with cold wind.

"What can I not believe?"

Leo's voice drifted down the stairs. Her roommate, dressed in a velvet gown with her hair wrapped in a towel, was descending gracefully from the second floor, resembling a noblewoman just emerging from a salon. Upon seeing the broken window, her meticulously trimmed eyebrows raised slightly.

"Oh... here he comes again?"

"This also involved burglary and robbery," Chloe said, tossing the pizza box onto the coffee table with a dull thud.

Leo tiptoed, effortlessly navigating around the shattered glass on the ground like a ballet dancer moving through a minefield. He glanced at the pizza box and then at the hole in the window. "Did he eat your pizza?"

"Taken away. Like pirates."

"Ethan," Leo sighed, sitting down on the sofa armrest with his legs crossed. "That walking hormone-rich zone. I have to say, by the standards of a jerk, his face truly shows the Creator's favor."

"He was a spoiled giant infant, believing the entire world was his playground and everything was his toy." Chloe began clearing the shattered glass from the floor, her movements somewhat rough; a piece of glass cut her fingertip, bleeding slightly. She paid no heed.

"Absolutely correct. But it's a spoiled giant infant with six well-defined abs, worthy of appearing on a sports magazine cover," Leoto said, resting his chin in his hand and looking at her with interest. "Honestly, Chloe, you need to do something. You can't keep letting these muscular, smooth-brained humanoid creatures treat you like a floor mat at the door."

"I'm going to write my thesis. Then I'll go to sleep. And tomorrow morning, I'll pray that they've forgotten about my existence."

"错误策略." Leo stood up, walked to her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and forced her to look at him. "Listen, dear. These guys have their brains糊ed up with protein powder, testosterone, and excessive adrenaline. They understand only one language: attention—especially attention from beautiful girls."

Chloe frowned. "What exactly do you want to say?"

"I said, you must fight back," Leo's eyes lit up—the same gleam that appears when a highly dramatic idea strikes him. "But not in your philosophical, speculative way. Use their way. The only way they can understand."

"I don't play football, Leo. I don't even understand the rules."

"Better," Leo said with a smile as cunning as a cat about to play a prank. "Did you see the party next door tonight? The noise was loud enough to wake the dead in the graves. I bet Ethan was there—like a peacock spreading his tail, basking in the glory of his role as captain, surrounded by girls screaming and wearing makeup so intense even their mothers couldn't recognize them."

"So what?"

"So," Leo lowered his voice and leaned forward as if sharing a monumental secret, "you dress up. Not this kind—" he pointed to her grayened old hoodie and sweatpants— "but the kind that makes their jaws drop and their eyes widen. Then you walk over and walk into the party. You find Ethan and make him look at you—truly at you—not at the 'bookworm next door,' but at a woman. And then, just as he feels the bait is in place and his mind has already started calculating the odds..."

"So what?"

"You turn and leave." Leo's smile widened, filled with playful delight, "No name, no number. Leave nothing behind. Let him watch your back all night, even the entire week after, wondering,' Who exactly is that damned woman in red?' Let him taste the sweetest dessert, then overturn the plate before his very eyes. My dear, this is the cruelest yet most elegant torment."

Chloe stared at him as if he had just suggested she rob a bank. "You're crazy. I have a class at nine tomorrow morning, and I need to submit the draft of my ethics paper by twelve o'clock—and I—"

"You can stay up late writing your thesis. Dignity cannot wait." Leo gripped her shoulders, his eyes unusually serious. "Think about it, Chloe. He broke your window, stole your pizza, called you 'sweetheart,' and wasn't even bothered to remember your name. And you—could walk in and become the most dazzling, most unforgettable presence at his foolish party, leaving him standing there like an idiot, unable to even ask your name. This is more valuable than any ethics thesis, I assure you."

Chloe remained silent. She gazed at the glittering glass fragments on the floor, at the hollow cavity filled with the cold wind, and listened to the music and revelry from the neighboring room, causing the walls to tremble slightly. Ethan's casual, indifferent smile as he ate her pizza was vividly etched in her mind. The cut on her fingertip stung faintly.

"I don't have clothes that would make people's jaws drop," she finally said, her voice somewhat dry.

Leo's eyes were gleaming with intensity. "My dear," he said, his voice filled with tenderness and eagerness, "you have me. Now, let's go upstairs. We have at most one hour left, and miracles require time."

Chloe looked at his face, then turned his head to gaze out the window at the brightly lit, bustling house. Four years of diligent study, one semester of endurance, the window shattered tonight, the pizza stolen, and that slight yet real stinging sensation on her fingertips—all these had gradually coalesced into something cold, hard, and angular within her chest.

"Alright," she said, her voice so calm that it surprised her slightly.

“ what ？”

"I said, okay." She raised her head, her violet eyes appearing exceptionally sharp in the dim light. "What should we do?"

Leo grinned, his smile filled with pure, playful ecstasy.

"Oh, darling," he took her hand and turned to hurry up the stairs. "Let's give that arrogant bastard a good lesson."