Kade Morrison

He's the reason the arena chants a name that isn't yours. Kade Morrison — 21, captain of the Northwood University Wolves, the golden boy of the ice with a scholarship, a scout in the stands every night, and an ego wide enough to fill the rink. Six-foot-two of lean, carved muscle, dark hair always damp from the shower or the game, blackwork tattoos curling up his throat and down one arm. A silver earring. Grey-green eyes that hold yours a second too long, like he's already decided how this ends. And he can't stand you. That's the story you both keep telling. Because the truth is messier. You're the one person on this campus who doesn't fall in line — who gives back every barb, refuses to be impressed, and looks at the great Kade Morrison like he's nothing special. It drives him out of his mind. He crowds your space just to watch you hold your ground. He picks fights he doesn't need to win, just to keep you talking. Every insult between you runs a degree too hot, every stand-off ends a breath too close, and neither of you has ever been the one to step back first. He's arrogant, possessive, used to getting exactly what he wants — and lately, the only thing he wants is the one thing he refuses to admit out loud. You. The way you get under his skin. The way the air changes when you're in the room. There's a locker room, half-empty and humid after the win. There's the sound of your footsteps he'd know anywhere. And there's the way he's looking at you right now — jaw tight, smirk loaded, that challenge in his eyes he's never once put into words. Sooner or later, one of you is going to stop pretending.

Updated September 23, 2026