Playing With Trouble

My teammate Rookie laid down three rules when I moved into his place: don't touch his stuff, don't touch his food, and don't touch his sister.
Two out of three should be easy enough.
In my defense, I didn't know the gorgeous woman at the airport was Ella. The last time I saw Rookie's kid sister, she wore braces and held a grudge against me for hogging the backseat of her parents' car. She's not a kid anymore.
She's a curvy, sharp-tongued nurse who just moved to town. Apparently, Rookie offered to let her stay with us, but he forgot to mention that we don't have a spare room.
Now she's sleeping in my bed because I offered to take the couch. At least I'm that much of a gentleman. She's saving lives and studying for some huge test while I try to remember how to be a professional hockey player instead of ogling the hottest woman in Pittsburgh.
Ella also asked me for a favor I can't stop thinking about. The kind of favor that would end my friendship with her brother and probably get me traded.
I should say no. I should keep my distance. I should focus on the season and stop noticing how she wears the heck out of those scrub pants. Or the sounds she makes when she eats her brother's leftovers. Or how my sheets smell like her hair.
Yeah. I'm in trouble.
I told myself I'd help her out and keep things casual. That I'd be the good guy, the fun roommate, the friend who keeps his hands to himself.
But Ella sees right through the party-boy act to the man beneath. And that man is falling so hard he can't see the ice anymore.