Lose You Twice (PCU Ice Storm #2)

1. Kai

KAI

I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life. Plenty of regrets packed into the last twenty-one years.

But not a single one of them beats the one standing in front of me right now.

Wren Calloway.

My sister’s best friend, who just so happens to be my ex-girlfriend.

Recently starting her journey at Pacific Coast University, my luck with successfully avoiding her for the last three years has come to an abrupt end.

She’s currently dancing with my teammate Weston Cooper, laughing like she doesn’t have a care in the world, which means I’ve never wanted to punch him in the face the way I do right now.

Not sure what that says about me, considering I’m the one who let her go to begin with.

The PCU hockey house is too hot, way too fucking loud, and packed wall to wall with bodies that smell like cheap beer and bad decisions. Winter term starts Monday, so I guess this is everyone’s last shot at making beyond questionable choices before pretending they have their shit together again.

My part in all this, apparently, is standing in the corner like a damn statue and minding my business.

Or at least trying to. My eyes seemed to be glued on one blue-eyed blonde in particular.

Weston has his hands on Wren’s hips, and they’re swaying to whatever bass-heavy song is currently making the wall at my back vibrate. She’s laughing at something he said, head tipped back, hair brushing her shoulders. She looks incredible.

I take a long drink and force myself to look away.

I feel Harlow before I see her—her arm looping through mine, her shoulder bumping my side. I glance down and find my sister looking up at me with the exact grin she saves for moments she knows are about to irritate me.

“Are you just going to stand here and pout all night?” Harlow asks.

“I’m not pouting.”

Grayson laughs under his breath from behind her. I cut him a look, and he lifts both hands.

“Hey. I’m just observing.”

“From the kitchen,” Harlow says, “it looked like a one-man pity party. Which is why I came to check on you.”

“I’m not having a pity party.” I shift my gaze back to the room. “I’m making sure nobody does anything stupid. We have conditioning in the morning, and I’m not dealing with anyone puking because they can’t handle a couple drinks.”

Harlow makes a sound that’s way too close to a laugh. She slips away from my side and leans back into Grayson, who settles his hands on her waist and presses a quick kiss to the top of her head like it’s second nature.

They’ve been together for a couple months now. I trust Grayson—more than I trust most people—but trust doesn’t erase four years of being the only thing standing between my sister and everything that tried to break her.

Old habits die slow.

“You know,” Harlow says, “you could just go talk to her.”

“I know.”

“The tension at Christmas was thick enough to cut with a knife, Kai.”

I don’t answer, because she’s not wrong.

The Calloways and the Mercers have spent every holiday together for as long as I can remember. Birthdays, camping trips, summer vacations—once Wren and Harlow became inseparable, our families weren’t far behind.

Which meant Wren was always there.

Which meant I spent years trying not to fall for my sister’s best friend and doing a terrible job of it.

I asked her to be my girlfriend in sixth grade.

Much like her and Harlow, we were together every chance we had until the spring before I left for college, when everything—her life, my life, Harlow, the mess of growing up—started pulling us in opposite directions. There wasn’t some big blowout, no one slammed a door. No one screamed.

We just unraveled.

Slowly. Quietly. Just like two young kids who loved each other but ran out of the right timing.

I thought I’d get over it.

Obviously, I haven’t.

Across the room, Wren laughs again, and even over the music I know it isn’t fully real. I know all her laughs. Knew them, anyway. This one is close enough to count and wrong enough to get under my skin.

Weston leans down to say something in her ear.

“I swear to God,” I mutter.

Harlow pats my arm. “Deep breaths.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re calculating exactly how many suicides you can make him skate tomorrow.”

“Four,” I say. “Minimum.”

She laughs—an actual laugh, bright and easy—and for a second I almost smile too.

Almost.

“Just go talk to her,” Harlow says again, quieter this time.

“Not tonight.”

She studies me for a second. “Then when?”

I don’t answer, because I don’t have one.

Instead, I look back across the room at the girl who’s been the answer to most of my questions since sixth grade. Weston spins her, and she laughs as he catches her.

I remind myself that I’m the one who let go first.

Doesn’t make it easier to watch.

Weston leans in again, his mouth almost at her ear, and I’m already pushing off the wall when the image blurs.

I bolt upright in bed, skin clammy, heart trying to fight its way out of my chest.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

For one disorienting second, I’m still there. In the hockey house. Music pounding. Weston’s hands on Wren’s hips. His mouth almost at her ear. Almost—

I scrub both hands over my face and drag in a breath.

A dream.

A nightmare, really. Courtesy of my own subconscious, which apparently hates me.

The party was real. Wren dancing with Weston was, unfortunately, very much real.

But he hadn’t leaned in that close. She hadn’t looked at him like that. He hadn’t almost kissed her.

My brain added that part since being miserable with the truth wasn’t enough. I needed director’s-cut footage of my own personal hell.

I reach for my phone and squint at the screen.

4:13 a.m.

Two hours and two minutes before my alarm is supposed to go off.

Of course.

Not 4:10. Not 4:15. Something uneven and irritating instead.

I stare at the ceiling for all of five seconds before I decide I’m done pretending I’m going back to sleep. I kill the alarm so it won’t go off later and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

The apartment is dark and quiet. No sound except the low hum of the AC and my own breathing, which is already starting to even out now that I’m moving.

Moving helps.

Stillness gives my mind too much room to be an asshole.

In the bathroom, I turn the cold water on full blast and splash my face once, twice, three times. The shock cuts through the fog, but not through the image of Wren and Weston my brain decided to replay for sport.

She wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

That’s not the point.

The point is that even in a dream, even knowing none of it was real, it still lodged somewhere behind my ribs and sat there like a stone.

I brace both hands on the sink and look at myself in the mirror.

Three months ago, I hadn’t seen Wren in 1,248 days.

Not that I was counting or anything.

I brush my teeth, wash my face properly this time, then wipe the water from the counter because I can’t leave it there, not when I know it’ll dry in uneven spots around the faucet. Then I hang the towel straight, adjust it once when the corners don’t line up, and head back to my room.

I dress by habit, everything exactly where I know it should be.

Second drawer on the left: shorts.

Second drawer on the right: shirts.

Top drawer: socks.

I pull on a white T-shirt and black shorts, then reach for the socks I matched last week.

Grayson says the system that I have is overkill and, to his credit, I’d say it’s borderline deranged.

I write letters on the toes of every pair, so I know which ones go together, because wearing two socks with different levels of wear is the kind of thing that can throw off an entire day.

My gym bag is already ready to go because I packed it last night, same as always, but I check it anyway.

Shoes in the side pocket. Slides under the shoes. Lifting gloves in the front zipper.

Pre-workout, shaker, extra tape, backup shirt, towel.

I know everything is there. I can see that everything is there.

I still check one more time anyway.

By 4:27, I’m dressed, keys in my pocket, bag over one shoulder.

In the kitchen, I grab a protein shake from the fridge and a banana off the counter.

Down half the shake in a few long swallows.

Eat the banana standing over the trash so I don’t leave the peel on the counter.

Rinse the empty bottle and put it in the recycling bin.

Then I scribble a note on the pad by the fridge.

Gym early.

It’s not like Grayson needs to know. I’m not his responsibility, but some part of me still works like the people I care about need to know where I am. Like leaving without a trace is a bad omen. If something goes wrong, the least I can do is make sure there’s a starting point.

Another old habit.

Another thing I should’ve grown out of by now.

I lock the apartment door behind me and test the handle.

Once.

Twice.

I force myself not to do it a third time.

Outside, the January air is cool, but not too cold. I take the long route to the training facility, cutting across the edge of the empty practice fields because I need the walk more than I need the extra sleep I wasn’t going to get anyway.

Wren has been the star of my dreams for as long as I can remember, but I didn’t know she’d land a leading role in my nightmares.

I haven’t asked why she’s here. I haven’t asked if she’s staying.

I haven’t asked anything, because asking means I care, and caring means she could look at me and know exactly how pathetic I’ve been without her.

She doesn’t need to know. If it was meant to be, we’d still be together.

At least, that’s what I’ve been trying to convince myself.

Much easier said than done when I have to see her pretty face and blue eyes that I’d happily let myself drown in.

By the time I swipe into the athletic facility, the tightness in my chest has sharpened into something I can use as fuel. The building is dark except for the emergency lights and the glow from the weight room windows.

The quiet settles over me the second I step inside.

No music. No teammates.

Perfect.

I toss my bag onto the bench and start my warm-up.