Chapter 20 Grayson
GRAYSON
Game days don’t begin with an alarm.
They start somewhere deeper—in muscle memory, in the quiet place under my ribs where anticipation coils long before my brain catches up. I wake already half-braced for impact, my nervous system humming like it knows what’s coming even if I haven’t opened my eyes yet.
My legs twitch. My jaw aches. My chest feels tight in that familiar way that means today matters.
This part isn’t new.
What’s new is the way her face slides into the edges of the feeling before I can stop it.
Harlow Mercer.
The thought lands soft and sharp at the same time, like a blade wrapped in fabric. I stare at the ceiling and let the sensation exist instead of fighting it, cataloging everything the way I always do on game mornings.
Energy in my calves.
Tension in my shoulders.
A weight in my chest that has nothing to do with nerves.
And then—because my brain is cruel—memory takes over.
Her shoulder brushing mine on the couch. The steady warmth at my side, like my body recognized something before I did. The quiet way she stayed.
I sit up too fast, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, like motion alone might knock the thought loose.
Focus.
Game day doesn’t care about feelings. It doesn’t care about soft moments or the way a smile can rearrange your internal wiring.
Game day wants clarity. Precision. Ruthlessness.
The rink always feels different once the fans show up.
It’s louder, for one, but it’s the energy that changes. A low thrum under the concrete that seeps into your bones. A building that goes from “facility” to “arena,” like the crowd flips a switch and suddenly everything matters more and the pressure has increased.
The locker room smells like tape and sweat and that sharp, clean sting of cold air trapped in gear. Guys are moving with purpose—stretching, lacing skates, tossing chirps like they’re tossing a puck. Weston is already talking like he’s trying to fill the entire room with his personality.
Asher sits two stalls down from me, calm as ever, elbows on his knees, eyes half-lidded like he’s already visualizing the game in his head. Kai is across the room, retaping his stick with the kind of focus that makes you feel lazy just by existing near him.
And Coleson Richards is pacing like a caged animal.
He’s got that football energy even in a hockey locker room—too big, too loud, too sure of himself. He snaps at one of the freshmen about “not screwing up in front of the crowd,” like intimidation is encouragement.
Kai’s gaze flicks up once.
That’s the warning.
Coleson doesn’t notice—or doesn’t care.
Coach Graves walks in, clipboard in hand, and the room snaps into something quieter.
Not silent. Just contained. The kind of quiet that means everyone’s listening even if they pretend they aren’t.
He runs lines, points out matchups, says a few things that sound like they belong on a motivational poster but somehow land like a threat anyway.
“Play our game,” he finishes, voice flat. “Don’t get cute. Don’t get dragged.”
His eyes sweep the room like he’s daring someone to test him.
Coleson smirks like he wants to.
We tap gloves and head out, the tunnel swallowing us up with noise and cold and that familiar pregame buzz that makes my hands feel too steady and my chest feel too tight at the same time.
And then the ice opens up.
Home.
Warm-ups hit like a reset button. I take a few hard strides, legs waking up, lungs clearing. The puck feels good on my stick—responsive, obedient. Weston slaps a pass across the blue line, and I one-touch it back without even looking because that’s what muscle memory is for.
I don’t look up right away.
I tell myself I won’t.
Then I do anyway, because I’m a liar, my eyes being traitors lately.
Harlow is in the stands, three rows up from the glass, tucked into herself like she always is. Except tonight she’s wearing Kai’s jersey. Dark fabric swallowing her small frame, sleeves too long, numbers too big. It should look ridiculous.
It doesn’t.
It looks like a clarification.
My chest tightens so hard it’s almost embarrassing. Not because she looks good—though she does, in that quiet, stubborn way she has.
Because it’s his jersey.
His name across her shoulders.
The wrong name.
My brain supplies the thought before I can stop it: I want it to be mine. It’s a stupid thought. Possessive. Dangerous, even. Off-limits written in giant neon letters. I turn away before it turns into something worse.
Focus.
The puck drops, and the game starts fast.
The other team comes out flying, trying to set the tone early. Two hard hits along the boards. A quick shot from the point that Asher eats like breakfast. The crowd roars anyway, hungry for something to cheer for.
We answer with speed.
Kai’s line gets the first real zone time. Weston wins a battle in the corner—miracle—and kicks the puck back to Kai, who doesn’t waste a second. He snaps a pass to me, cutting through the slot.
I don’t think.
I shoot.
Their goalie gets a piece of it, glove flashing, and the puck pops loose into the crease. Chaos erupts in front of the net—sticks, skates, bodies.
Weston crashes the crease like he was born to be annoying and tips it in.
The horn blares. The crowd detonates.
Weston throws his hands up like he personally invented goals. “LET’S GO!”
We swarm him anyway because that’s what you do. Helmets knocking, gloves slapping, adrenaline spiking.
As I skate back to the bench, my eyes flick upward without permission. Harlow isn’t screaming. She’s standing, hands pressed to her mouth like she’s trying to hold herself together, eyes bright and locked on the ice like she can’t believe it’s real.
And there’s that smile again—small, rare, unguarded.
It hits low and warm.
My chest loosens.
Then tightens again, because her jersey still says Mercer.
The game stays chippy.
The other team doesn’t love being down early, and they start doing what teams do when they’re frustrated—late shoves after whistles, extra hacks at sticks, little cheap shots disguised as “finishing plays.”
Coleson eats it up. He chirps their bench every time we skate by. Loud enough that the ref glances over. He takes a run at their defensemen near the boards and then grins like he’s proud of himself.
Kai’s jaw ticks.
Second shift, Coleson lines up at the faceoff and leans in toward their center, saying something I can’t hear over the crowd. Their center’s head snaps up. His stick comes up. The puck drops, and suddenly gloves are off.
Coleson’s laughing.
Kai is not.
He grabs Coleson by the back of the jersey and hauls him out of it with one hard yank, like he’s pulling a dog away from traffic.
“Enough,” Kai snaps, low, lethal.
Coleson shrugs him off like he’s invincible. “They’re soft.”
Kai’s eyes cut to him. “You’re embarrassing.”
Coleson’s grin turns mean. “Relax, Mercer. I’m just having fun.”
Kai’s voice drops colder. “We’re here to win.”
Coleson scoffs and skates away, still chirping.
I catch Asher’s gaze from the net. Calm. Unimpressed.
Goalie energy.
The first period ends 1–0, but it feels like it’s been fifty minutes, the tension thick enough to chew. We head into the locker room, sweat-soaked and buzzing. Coach starts talking adjustments, but Coleson keeps talking over him—laughing about the scrum like it’s the highlight reel.
Coach’s eyes narrow.
Kai stands up before Coach even finishes. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to.
“Coleson,” Kai says, calm and flat.
The room goes quiet by accident.
Coleson turns, grinning like he wants the attention. “Yeah, Captain?”
Kai’s expression doesn’t change. “Shut up.”
A few guys snort. Weston looks like he’s trying not to smile.
Coleson’s grin falters for half a second. “What?”
Kai steps closer, not aggressive, just steady. “You’re running your mouth like we’re up by five. You’re taking dumb penalties. You’re trying to turn this into a show.”
Coleson opens his mouth.
Kai cuts him off. “We don’t need you to be a show. We need you to do your job.”
The words land hard because they’re simple.
Kai’s stare stays locked on Coleson like a warning backed by teeth.
Coleson laughs, but it’s forced. “Whatever, man.”
Kai holds his gaze. “Not whatever. Fix it.”
Then Kai sits back down like he didn’t just end a man’s ego with two sentences.
Coach continues like nothing happened, but the room feels different now—sharper, more focused. Even Coleson goes quiet, chewing on his mouthguard like he’s trying to swallow his pride.
Second period, the other team comes out swinging.
They tie it five minutes in on a rebound goal that makes Asher slam his stick against the post in frustration.
The crowd groans.
We respond with pressure.
Kai’s line cycles deep, wearing their defense down. The puck bounces out to the blue line, and one of our senior defenseman steps into it, ripping a slap shot through traffic that gets tipped on the way in.
The horn blares again.
2–1.
I’m on the bench when it happens, watching Kai skate past the glass with that hard, controlled intensity he lives in.
My eyes flick upward again. Harlow’s on her feet, clapping this time. Not loud. Not dramatic. But real. Kai’s jersey looks too big on her, and the sight does something twisted in my chest. Pride for him. Envy for me. Want that I have no business wanting.
I’m not supposed to want her to wear mine. I’m not supposed to imagine what it would look like, her swallowed in my name, her eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in the building. I choke it down and skate through my shift like a man trying to outrun his own thoughts.
Coleson plays cleaner after Kai’s scolding. Still physical, still chirpy, but he stops crossing the line into stupid. Kai keeps him in check anyway—one glare at a time.
The third period is where it gets tight.
The other team presses. The puck stays in our end too long. Asher makes a big save that brings the whole building to its feet. My legs burn. My lungs feel like sandpaper.