Chapter 15 Grayson
GRAYSON
Early evening at the rink feels like stepping into a different set of laws.
The lobby is colder than campus, and the air is sharp enough to wake you up even if you’re feeling a lot more like a sloth than a human. Through the glass, the ice glows under the lights—white and clean and unforgiving, like the world’s most expensive coping mechanism.
Which is fine.
I’m a big fan of coping mechanisms.
I’m standing by the vending machine holding a protein bar I don’t want, staring at the wrapper like it’s going to answer my questions if I glare hard enough.
It doesn’t.
It just sits there, shiny and smug, judging my life choices.
Weston is pacing two feet to my left, bouncing on his skates like a Labrador that just heard the word park. Asher is standing off to the side, checking his phone with the calm competence of someone who was born with his shit together.
Kai is nowhere in sight, which is…unusual. Not because Kai loves public skate hours. He doesn’t. Because if Harlow is coming, Kai usually appears like a shadow with a pulse.
Which means either he’s giving her space—or he’s trying to.
Same difference.
Weston leans toward me, stage whispering, “You look pensive.”
I don’t glance at him. “Why are you using big words? You’re a freak, man.”
“I don’t know, some girl used it in class today, and I’ve been trying to find a place to use it correctly. That’s true,” he says proudly. “Especially in the sheets. But for real, you look like you’re thinking.”
“I am thinking.”
Weston’s eyes widen. “Disgusting.”
Asher’s gaze flicks up. “Stop antagonizing him.”
Weston gasps. “I’m not antagonizing. I’m observing.”
“You’re always antagonizing,” Asher says.
Weston points at him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Asher’s expression doesn’t change. “It is.”
I bite the corner of the protein bar wrapper—not because I’m hungry, but because my hands need something to do. My brain has been doing that annoying thing all day where it replays last night’s porch conversation like it’s trying to find a hidden message.
People tell me I’m…a lot.
The words keep circling like a puck on a string. It shouldn’t matter. Plenty of people feel like too much. Plenty of people hate crowds. Plenty of people need exits. Plenty of people freeze at buffets like the options are a threat. But my brain keeps stacking the similarities anyway.
The cadence.
The blunt honesty.
The way Harlow speaks like she’s allergic to bullshit.
The way LittleTooMuch writes like she’s exhausted by pretending.
Too similar.
And I hate the way my stomach tightens when the thought gets loud, because if I’m right—
Then I’m in trouble.
Not just because of Kai.
Because of her.
I’ve been one person with her in the dark and a different person in real life.
If it’s the same girl…
Did I trick her?
No. I didn’t know.
But brains are idiots, especially mine. It’s great at finding a way to make everything my fault.
Asher nudges my shoulder lightly. “You good?”
I blink, realizing he’s been watching me.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
Asher’s eyes narrow a fraction, not buying it, but he doesn’t press. He just nods like he filed it away.
Weston grins. “He’s not fine. He’s thinking about his pen pal.”
“I’m going to throw you into the Zamboni door,” I tell him.
Weston beams. “See? Emotion.”
The doors open behind us, and cold air spills in as a few skaters leave.
Then Harlow steps inside. Oversized sweater—dark green this time—leggings, tote slung over her shoulder. Hair down. Eyes scanning the lobby like she’s cataloging exits, noise levels, threats. Her shoulders are tense at first. Then she spots Weston.
Weston waves both arms like he’s signaling planes. “Harlow!”
Harlow’s mouth twitches as she finds us. Tiny. Real. My chest tightens in that stupid way it did yesterday when she smiled at my joke on the porch. And there it is again—the want, overwhelming and unfamiliar, to be the reason for her smiles.
To earn it again.
Harlow walks toward us, steps measured. Her eyes flick to Asher first, then to me, as if she can’t keep them away even if she tried. We hold eye contact for half a second. Something in my chest shifts like a door opening. Then she looks away like she doesn’t want the moment to exist.
“Hi,” she says to the group, voice flat but not unfriendly.
Asher nods. “Harlow.”
Weston thinks better of speaking and gives her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Harlow glances at him. “Is this your quiet mode?”
Weston nods violently. Harlow’s mouth twitches again. I look away so she doesn’t see me watching it like it matters. Because it does. And I don’t want her to know it does.
Weston points toward the benches and mimes I can help with his whole face.
Harlow sighs like she’s resigned to chaos. “Fine. But if you fall, I’m leaving you.”
Weston’s eyes go wide. He whispers to Asher, “She’s funny.”
Asher replies, deadpan, “Yes. I noticed.”
Harlow sits to lace her skates. Weston drops beside her, talking—quietly, for once—while Asher leans against the wall, watching the ice like he’s mentally doing drills.
I stay a few feet back. Not because I’m afraid of her.
Because I’m afraid of how easy it is to notice her.
The way she lines up her skates with careful precision.
The way she pulls each lace tight the same amount, like control is a language her body speaks fluently.
The way her fingers tremble when someone laughs too loud behind us, then steady again when she focuses.
Little tells. My brain keeps collecting them like it’s building a file.
Weston stands and offers her a hand onto the ice like a dramatic gentleman.
Harlow stares at his hand like it’s a trick. “I can skate.”
Weston nods solemnly. “I know. This is for me. I need to feel useful.”
Harlow rolls her eyes but takes his hand anyway.
The second her blades hit the ice, she changes.
Not into a different person. Into herself.
Her shoulders drop. Her breath deepens. She pushes off with a quiet confidence that makes the world look like it belongs to her for a minute.
She glides. Clean edges. Smooth turns. No frantic energy. No performance.
Just…control.
Quiet.
Weston skates out behind her and immediately loses a bit of dignity.
Harlow doesn’t even look back. “You’re doing great.”
Weston points at her, offended. “That was sarcasm.”
“It was encouragement,” she replies, deadpan.
Asher steps onto the ice, effortlessly, and glides past Weston like a man who’s never been humbled in his life.
Weston yells, “Hale, you’re not allowed to be graceful in public!”
Asher doesn’t respond. He just skates.
I lace up and step onto the ice slower, letting them have their space.
Harlow circles the rink, building speed quickly. It seems like she’s finding her old rhythm again, less focused and more fun. It’s a beautiful thing to see, but it might just be that I keep finding myself thinking about just how beautiful the girl in front of me is.
A sense of pride fills me as I watch her.
Like I’m watching someone fight for herself in ways nobody actually gets to see, but that mean the most to her in their own ways.
Weston says something that makes her laugh, and I can’t help but think that I want to do that for her. Make her laugh. Make her smile. Not because I need all of her attention, but because for the few seconds that part of her peeks through, the dark cloud around her is a lot brighter.
She skates to the boards to take a break, and my body moves before my brain can be smart about it. I angle in her direction. Not too close. Not crowding.
Just…present.
Harlow rests her hands on the boards, breathing lightly. Her cheeks are flushed from cold and exertion, eyes brighter than I’ve seen them anywhere else.
“You look a lot more relaxed out here today,” I say, because apparently I’m incapable of not stating obvious truths.
Harlow glances at me. “I know.”
The bluntness makes my mouth twitch.
“Right,” I say. “Sorry. Forgot you’re allergic to compliments.”
“I’m not allergic,” she says. “I just don’t like unnecessary ones.”
I nod slowly. “So what kind are you okay with?”
She blinks. “What?”
“Compliments,” I clarify. “Necessary ones only?”
Harlow’s mouth twitches. “Maybe.”
Is it necessary to tell her she looks beautiful today?
Probably not.
Do I want to anyway?
Yes.
Instead, I clear my throat and lean my forearms on the boards beside her, careful to keep my distance. “Okay. Necessary compliment…you look beautiful today, and your edges are insane.”
Harlow pauses, then looks away quickly like she can hide the blush quickly reddening her cheeks. “Thank you.”
I glance toward the far end, where Weston is attempting something athletic and failing loudly.
“Asher looks like he was born on skates,” I say.
Harlow hums. “He’s scary calm.”
“Right?” I snort. “Like he’s never once had a spiraling thought.”
Harlow’s gaze flicks to me, sharp. “Well, not all hockey players are immune. It’s okay to spiral, especially over something you love.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You spiral,” she says, like it’s a fact. “You told me as much. Actually, I think you said my brother can cause you all to have a little moment or two when you’re late to film.”
My stomach flips. Because she’s right. Because she noticed. And because nobody notices that unless they’re looking.
I cover it with humor. “Are you profiling me?”
Harlow’s mouth twitches. “Maybe.”
My pulse trips again, connecting the dots, but I force it down.
“Dangerous hobby,” I say lightly.
Harlow’s gaze holds mine. “So is hockey.”
“Touché,” I concede.
A quiet stretch settles between us. Then Harlow’s eyes shift toward the entrance, and I see it—the subtle tension returning, like she’s remembering she’s in public. Her fingers tighten on the boards.
“You okay?” I ask, low.
“Yeah,” she says quickly.
Automatic armor.
I don’t push. “Okay.”
And then, softer, “If you need to leave, you can. No one here is going to be mad.”
Harlow’s head turns fast, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to figure out if I’m patronizing her. I keep my face neutral. She studies me for a long moment.
Then she exhales. “I’m not leaving. I like…this.”
Her voice drops on the last word, like she’s surprised by it.
A small victory.
I nod once. “You don’t have to, but you also don’t have to force yourself to stay in situations that make you uncomfortable, even if others think it’s important for you to.”
Harlow glances away like she doesn’t want the moment to exist too long.
Then she pushes off the boards and skates back out.
Weston cuts in behind her like a puppy. Asher follows at a calmer distance.
I stay by the boards for a second, watching.
And my brain does what it does—quietly, relentlessly—connecting tiny things.
Her words. Her rhythm. Her “too much.” The way she tries to make herself smaller and then fights it.
I don’t want to be right.
Because being right means the safe thing I’ve had in the dark is tied to a girl under bright rink lights, in Kai’s orbit, in my real life.
And that makes it dangerous.
Not because I want to do something about it.
Because I already care.
And caring is the part you can’t undo.
Afterward, we file out together.
Weston talks the whole way. Asher keeps him from getting louder than necessary. Harlow walks with her tote on her shoulder like she’s bracing to be a person again. In the lobby, she slows a fraction, letting Weston and Asher drift ahead. She ends up beside me. Not close. Just…aligned.
“Thanks,” she says quietly. “For not being loud.”
I snort softly. “It’s one of my best qualities.”
She glances at me, skeptical. “Debatable.”
“Okay,” I say. “Rude.”
“You have a lot of great qualities,” she replies, and judging by the blush taking over her cheeks, I don’t think she fully intended for that to slip out.
I bite my cheek to keep my grin in check, but the corners of my mouth quirk. “Get home safe.”
She nods once. “You too.”
Then she turns, heading toward the parking lot. I watch her for half a second too long, then I turn away, because wanting is dangerous, and I’m starting to want.
A lot.
Back at the apartment, Kai still isn’t home.
Which means he either let her go alone or he’s parked outside her dorm like a lunatic, waiting to make sure she makes it back safely.
Both are equally possible.
I shower. I eat something vaguely responsible. I stare at the ceiling and pretend my brain isn’t still on the ice.
Eventually, my hand finds my phone.
Not because I’m desperate.
Because my brain is a liar.
I open the forum.
LittleTooMuch is online.
My thumb hovers over the message box.
I type two words.
you okay?
Then I delete them. I stare at the empty cursor like it’s a dare. Because if I’m right, asking anything is dangerous. If I’m wrong, asking anything is still dangerous. Either way, the truth is the same:
I’m being pulled.
Toward the quiet she carries. Toward the way she looks on the ice—like she belongs to herself. Toward the version of me that wants to reach.
And away from Kai’s trust. Away from simplicity. Away from the rules I’ve lived by these last months.
I lock my phone, setting it face down, like that fixes anything.
And I’m not sure what scares me more—
That she is Harlow Mercer…or that a part of me is hoping she is.