Chapter 23 Harlow
HARLOW
If there’s a circle of hell reserved for “mandatory events,” it looks exactly like this.
A room dressed up on a Saturday night to pretend it isn’t what it is: rink-adjacent concrete and folding chairs and a lingering scent of popcorn that no amount of string lights can erase.
The tables are covered in black cloth, banners are hung all over, and someone has put out little placards with player photos like they’re collectibles instead of real people.
And the donors, boosters, and alumni are smiling with that polished, fake warmth and pleasantry that makes my skin feel too thin. Whether it’s true or not, it feels like their eyes see everything, and the dress I’m wearing doesn’t let me hide.
On FaceTime as I was getting ready, Wren gave me the world’s best pep talk, according to her at least, noting that my dress hugged every inch of me perfectly while giving just enough away to be a tease. And instead of it making me feel self-conscious, it gave me a boost of confidence.
When I ordered the dress, I honestly just scrolled until I found something I hoped would work, and tried it on once it came in yesterday afternoon.
The last thing I needed was too many options or to spend too much time in fitting rooms, looking into the mirror and starting to pick apart every place on my body that I thought I looked too soft or not perfect enough.
Wren had started sending over hairstyle ideas as soon as I had told her that Grayson asked me to come with him, but I ended up pulling most of it into a messy bun at the base of my neck and curling a few of the loose strands framing my face.
I kept my makeup simple to minimize the chances of feeling claustrophobic.
I hover near the edge with a cup of water as my eyes do their inventory without asking permission: exits, bathrooms, quiet corners, the shortest path to the door if my brain decides it’s had enough.
Three months ago, I didn’t have to do this.
Three months ago, my world was a laptop screen and an online lecture and a bathroom that always smelled like my own soap. A month ago, if something was too much, I could shut the door and pretend I didn’t exist.
Now I exist, constantly.
Kai is across the room, talking to a man in a blazer, posture squared, voice calm. The version of him that belongs in rooms like this. He looks comfortable on the surface, but his eyes keep flicking in my direction like he can’t stop himself.
Asher is nearby, polite and steady, making small talk like it costs him nothing.
Weston is…Weston, already laughing too loud and gesturing with his whole body as if the room were a stage and he was born under the spotlight.
And Grayson is wearing a dark button-up instead of a hoodie, which should not be that fascinating, but my eyes latched onto it right away when he showed up at my dorm to pick me up.
It makes him look older, sharper, but mostly even more handsome than normal.
The material stretches perfectly across his muscular arms, making him look even fitter and causing my brain to really start to wonder what he’d look like without it on.
He seemed to like my dress, too, judging by the smile that graced his lips as he took me in from head to toe. I was shocked when he opened my door in his truck, but even more stunned when he threaded his fingers through mine as we walked in.
Right now, he is a few feet away, listening to an older guy with a too-bright smile talk at him like Grayson is an investment.
Grayson nods at the right times, says “Yes, sir,” and smiles politely.
But his eyes keep flicking away. Not scanning like mine.
Not searching for threats. Searching for the door.
My stomach tightens. Because I know what it looks like when someone is counting the minutes until they can breathe again. It’s the same way I look when I’m trapped in the dining hall line and the menu feels like a threat.
The older guy laughs and claps Grayson on the back—hard, familiar. Grayson’s whole body goes rigid for a split second. Not dramatic. Not obvious to the people who aren’t looking for it.
Obvious to me.
Something inside my chest twists.
I don’t think.
I move.
I weave between bodies with measured steps, sliding around shoulders and handbags, keeping my pace calm so I don’t draw attention. Every part of me wants to shrink, but my feet keep going anyway because my brain has decided Grayson’s stiffness matters more than my own comfort.
When I’m close enough, I can hear the older man saying, “Skill like yours is rare. Scouts love a young man who carries himself the right way.”
Grayson nods. “Thank you, sir.”
The man leans in like he’s telling a secret. “You’ll be at the next level. We’re proud to have you representing the program.”
Proud.
A word that sounds warm until it starts feeling like a weight. Grayson’s jaw is locked. I step into his periphery. His gaze flicks to me, and the change is immediate—like a pressure valve loosening, just enough.
“Harlow,” he says quietly.
The older man turns and smiles wider when he sees me. “And you must be Mercer’s sister.”
My chest tightens, but I keep my face neutral. “Yeah. Hi.”
“We love having family around,” he says, too loud, too cheerful. “These boys are doing great things. It’s a shame Owen isn’t here to see how far you’ve come, Grayson. He’d be very proud of you, son.”
“Thanks again, sir,” Grayson says, but his eyes stay on me instead of him, and I can see the war raging within them, the stiffness in his posture that seems to be taking over his entire body. I tilt my head slightly toward the hallway.
Air?
Grayson’s eyelid twitches, and I take that as a yes. I let my mouth move before my brain can talk me out of it.
“Speaking of family,” I say, soft but clear, “Kai asked me to find you.”
“Right,” he says, extending a hand to the older man. “Thank you for coming, but if you’ll excuse us.”
The donor’s smile never falters. “Of course. Good luck with the rest of your season.”
Grayson steps away. I turn with him, guiding us toward the hallway before the room can swallow him again.
We don’t speak until the noise drops behind us.
The second we’re out of the main space, Grayson exhales like he’s been holding his breath.
His shoulders relax an inch, and he drags a hand over the back of his neck, leaning his shoulder into the wall.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice rough.
I shrug like my heart isn’t pounding. “You looked like you were a couple of seconds away from swaying on the spot.”
A flicker crosses his face, almost humor.
“I was considering it.”
We walk a little farther down the corridor, where the lights are dimmer and the air is cooler.
The rink hum sits beneath everything like a familiar heartbeat, and there’s an exit sign glowing red at the end of the hall.
Grayson stares at it for a second too long, then he looks away as if he has to in order not to rush toward it and escape.
I stop a few feet from him, keeping my distance the way he keeps space between us when I need it.
For a moment, we just stand there. Muffled laughter spills into the hall from the event, random people filing in and out.
Grayson doesn’t move. His breathing is controlled, but I can see the tension still present in his jaw.
“You don’t like these things,” I say carefully.
“No,” he answers. “I don’t.”
“What’s the worst part?” I ask, because my curiosity is a living thing, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t have it. I want to know him more.
His eyes flick to mine. “Being told who I am.”
“By people who don’t know you,” I add quietly, nodding my head in understanding.
“Yeah, exactly like that. They think that just because I wear a jersey and they get to see me play on the ice, that it means they know me. But they don’t. They don’t care to take the time to either.”
I hesitate, then say what my brain has been circling for days.
“I don’t like that they do that to you.”
I take a slow breath, because my nervous system wants to treat this as dangerous and run.
I don’t.
“I’m not trying to pry,” I say. “I just…notice things about you that I normally wouldn’t with others.”
He huffs a rough breath that might’ve been a laugh if he had more room inside himself.
“You do,” he says.
He presses the back of his head to the wall and closes his eyes for a second, like he’s shutting down a memory.
“Tell me more about him.”
Grayson’s gaze lifts to mine so fast it’s almost a flinch.
“Harlow…” His voice is quiet—gentle, almost as if he’s asking if I’m sure.
“I’m sorry,” I say, even though my chest tightens. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready or if this is a bad time. I just want to know you, and I have a feeling that means getting to know him a little too.”
His throat works. He looks past my shoulder down the hall at the donors leading back into the dinner area, and then he looks back at me, and something in his face eases, even if it’s just a fraction.
“Owen was…a lot,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts like the memory tries to be funny before it hurts. “In the most infuriating yet addicting way.”
My lips twitch. “Louder than Weston?”
A real sound comes out of him, full of surprise.
“Way louder,” he says immediately, like it’s muscle memory. “And that’s saying something.”
It shouldn’t make warmth bloom in my chest, but it does.
Grayson’s gaze drops to the floor again, like he’s choosing what he shares carefully. As if he’s handing me something he doesn’t hand out often, that little shift where the room fades and it’s just us and the truth he’s letting me have.
His hands flex beside him, like he wants to touch me and is holding himself back, unsure of what I want in this situation.
I take a slow breath and let my actions speak for me.
I reach out, my fingertips brushing his hand gently, offering any sort of peace my touch can bring.
His fingers curl around mine, just like I expected. I knew he was waiting for permission.
His hand is warm. Solid. Rough in a way that speaks to the hard work and dedication he applies to his sport. I can feel his pulse hammering, so I step into him, wrapping my free arm around his waist and breathing him in.
Oh my God, he smells so good.
He shifts his weight, letting go of my hand, only to bring both of his arms around me, and I can’t help but melt into him.
We stand like that for a few minutes, my head leaning against his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat as it finally calms down into a normal, calmer rhythm.
“This month…” he starts.
Then stops, like the rest of the sentence is too hard to even admit out loud.
I squeeze him a little tighter. “I know.”
His jaw flexes. “I don’t like that it still…gets me.”
“It would be weird if it didn’t,” I whisper against his chest. “It means you care, and caring is a good thing.”
He presses a kiss to my hair, bringing me even closer to him.
A few minutes of silence pass, and he finally lets out a long sigh.
“You want to go back in?” he asks, so casual it almost isn’t, but his eyes are begging me to say no as he peers down at me.
“Whenever you’re ready,” I say, shrugging, “I’m not in a hurry.”
Instead of heading back in, we stay where we are, arms wrapped around each other. I never knew that someone who was a stranger only a couple of months ago could feel like my lifeline in this storm of change.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.