10. Kai
KAI
Iwalk into the rink Thursday morning with a weird level of energy buzzing through me. I wish I could say it was thanks to the coffee in my hand, but that would be a lie.
Wren has been working with the team for almost a week, and I can’t say that I haven’t both enjoyed and hated seeing her more and more often. Thankfully, it’s not every single day, yet still often enough that I find myself getting more excited on the mornings I know I’ll see her.
I woke up before my alarm, and it had absolutely nothing to do with knowing what time Wren was coming into work this morning. Definitely not.
It wasn’t hard to stay home until our normal rink time either. Not at all. I snort at that thought.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
Donnelly and Wren are standing by the towel bins, organizing and sorting what seems to be the clean laundry. “Gray bin, Calloway. Not blue.”
“I was testing your commitment to the system,” Wren replies, and I stop before I can talk myself out of it.
Wren is wearing black leggings, sneakers, and a gray PCU Athletics sweatshirt that’s too big on her, and for half a second, my mind tricks me into thinking it’s mine. Then I remember, she wasn’t mine at any point in my time here.
Get it together, dude.
Her hair is clipped up, but a few pieces have escaped around her face. She has a clipboard tucked under one arm and a stack of towels balanced against her hip.
She looks tired.
She also looks focused.
That combination hits me harder than it should.
Donnelly looks up and catches me standing there. “Mercer. You waiting for an invitation to help?”
“No.”
Wren’s eyes lift to mine.
For one second, neither of us moves. Nothing about it should feel charged. Donnelly is right there.
Still, my attention drops to the loose strand of hair near her cheek.
I know better than to want to fix it, but my hand twitches with the urge to reach out all the same.
Wren’s mouth moves into a small grin, like she knows exactly what I’m trying not to do.
Donnelly sighs. “Unless one of you plans to explain why towel organization suddenly requires this much eye contact, move.”
Wren looks down first, and I walk past her into the locker room, hating the loss of her attention more than I’ve got any right to.
Weston is already at his stall, which either means he developed discipline overnight or the world is ending. He has one sock on and one missing, and he’s staring into his bag like it betrayed him.
“Problem?” I ask.
“I had two socks.”
“That’s generally how socks work.”
“I now have one sock.”
Asher doesn’t look up. “That’s generally how you work.”
Weston points at him. “Not helpful.”
Grayson walks in behind me, backpack over one shoulder. He takes one look at Weston, then one at me.
“You look awful,” he says.
Weston gasps. “I’m missing a sock, and you choose to be rude?”
“I was talking about Kai.”
“Ah, carry on then.”
I drop my bag in my stall. “I’m fine.”
I’m actually anything but fine, and I have no right to be. She’s here, in my space, in my dreams, engraved in my soul, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
Grayson waits, and when I don’t elaborate, he asks, “Did you sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
Weston pulls his missing sock out of his skate and holds it up. “Found it.”
Coach walks in before Weston can turn the sock into a speech. “Let’s move. On the ice in five.”
Good. I need practice.
I need my legs burning and my lungs tight. I need a puck on my stick and something to burn some of this extra energy out of my system.
Practice is fast.
The first drills help. Edge work. Breakouts. Transition. A hard forecheck sequence that forces Weston to stop talking for almost six full minutes, which is probably worth documenting.
Then I see Wren through the glass.
She’s still training with Donnelly, walking from the laundry area back toward the locker room, holding practice jerseys. She isn’t watching me at first. She’s listening to him point at the clipboard, then her eyes lift and find mine.
My stick is on the ice, the puck is coming my way. I know where Grayson is. I know Weston is drifting too high because Weston believes positions are suggestions when he’s bored.
I know all of it.
And still, for half a second, my focus splits.
The puck hits my blade wrong.
Not badly enough to blow the drill, but badly enough that I know.
Coach knows too.
“Mercer,” he barks.
“I got it.”
He crosses his arms, clearly displeased. “Then get it.”
I do.
The next rep is clean. The one after that is better. I push harder than necessary, cut sharper than I should, and by the time Coach blows the whistle, my hip has started to pull in a way the trainer would have very strong opinions about.
I ignore it.
Ignoring things has become a theme.
In the locker room after practice, Coach goes over the weekend schedule while everyone strips off gear and pretends they aren’t exhausted.
“Road game Saturday,” he says. “We leave tomorrow afternoon. A storm is moving in, so we’re getting there early instead of gambling with the pass. Film tonight. Light skate tomorrow morning, and we’ll be on the bus at one.”
A few guys groan, but Coach ignores them.
“Donnelly will send equipment instructions. If you forget something, I won’t be kind about it.”
Weston raises a hand. “Define kind.”
“No.” Coach’s eyes cut to me. “Mercer, make sure the room is set before film. I want focus, not circus behavior.”
Weston looks offended. “I feel targeted.”
“You should,” Coach says, completely over his antics.
Asher leans back against his stall. “At least he’s honest.”
“Thank you,” Weston says.
“That wasn’t support.”
“I’m accepting it anyway.”
The room loosens with laughter, but I’m already looking toward the equipment hallway.
I pull my hoodie on, grab my bag, and head out before I can talk myself out of it.
She’s in the equipment room with Donnelly, surrounded by bins, tape, spare laces, and black trunks that look heavy enough to hurt someone. Her sleeves are pushed up, and there’s a line of concentration between her brows as she writes something on the clipboard.
Donnelly sees me first. “Mercer.”
“Need anything?”
Wren’s pen pauses.
Donnelly points toward the trunks. “Need everyone to stop pretending they know how to pack for a road game.”
“Can’t help you there.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Wren looks up. “You offering free labor, Captain?”
The word sounds different from her. Not mocking exactly, but not respectful either. It lands somewhere between challenge and habit, and I feel it low in my stomach.
“Depends on what you need,” I say, eyeing the pile of equipment and totes that still need to be taken to the bus. I don’t outright offer to help because I know she’ll turn me down.
She looks at the bags, then back at me. “I can handle it.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
Donnelly grunts from behind his clipboard. “If he’s helping, I’m using him. Mercer, grab the black tote on your right.”
Wren gives Donnelly a look, but he doesn’t seem to care.
I grab the tote. It’s heavy enough that I have to adjust my grip. Wren notices and reaches for the side handle at the same time I do.
Our fingers brush, just barely. Still, my whole body reacts.
Heat moves through my palm and up my arm before I can stop it. My grip tightens on the handle. Wren’s breath catches, so small I’d miss it if I weren’t already paying too much attention.
Her eyes lift to mine, and the room suddenly feels way too warm for a hoodie, maybe even clothes in general.
Neither of us moves.
Donnelly clears his throat. “Unless you two plan to flirt that tote into the bus, move.”
Wren drops her hand first.
Color rises in her cheeks, but she turns away before I can see how much.
“I wasn’t flirting,” she mutters.
Donnelly doesn’t look up. “And I’m not holding a clipboard.”
I carry the tote out before I do something stupid, like smile.
The rest of the morning is travel prep, which is usually pretty boring. Bags get labeled, sticks get checked, medical supplies get packed, guys drift in and out asking questions that Donnelly answers with less patience each time.
Wren keeps up.
That’s the thing I notice most. She asks questions when she needs to; she doesn’t pretend to understand something she doesn’t.
She writes instructions on sticky notes in messy, slanted handwriting that makes my chest ache because I remember notes passed under desks and grocery lists stuck to her mother’s fridge.
Every few minutes, I catch her looking at me.
Every few minutes, she catches me looking back.
Neither of us says anything about it.
By noon, the equipment hallway is loud with carts, bags, and some of the team making everything harder by standing in the way. Weston appears with a roll of tape stuck to his wrist and no explanation.
“Do I ask?” Wren says.
“Please don’t,” Asher answers.
Weston lifts his wrist. “I was testing adhesive strength.”
“You got stuck to a door,” Asher says.
“For science.”
Donnelly looks at the tape. “If that roll goes missing, I’m charging you.”
Weston points at Wren. “Is he always this hateful?”
Wren doesn’t even look up from her clipboard. “I find him soothing.”
Donnelly snorts.
Weston looks delighted. “Oh, Wren, I forgot how funny you are. That’s dangerous.”
“She’s working,” I say, shooting him a glare.
The words are out before I can pull them back.
Wren’s eyes lift to mine.
A warning.
Not angry. Not yet. Just enough to remind me of what she said in the equipment room.
I drag a hand over the back of my neck. “Sorry.”
The apology is quiet enough that only she hears it.
Her expression softens for half a second, then closes again before anyone else can notice. “It’s fine.”
It isn’t.
Not fully.
But she lets me have the correction, and I take the win because I’ve been short on those lately.
Donnelly sends me and Grayson to load two trunks into the equipment van.
Wren follows with a smaller bag and a clipboard, her pace quick as she checks items off the list. The afternoon sky is already heavy, clouds low over campus in a way that makes Coach’s decision to leave early look smarter by the hour.
“Storm’s supposed to hit tomorrow night on the pass,” Grayson says, lifting his end of the trunk.
“I saw.”
He gives me a baffled look as we put the trunk into the van. “You saw the weather?”
“Everyone should check the weather before traveling.”
“Most people look out a window.”
I nod my head toward Weston. “Most people forget socks.”
From behind us, Weston yells, “I found both today!”
Wren laughs under her breath, and my grip tightens on the trunk.
That laugh.
I want it again immediately, which is a bad sign and not something I have time to unpack while carrying fifty pounds of equipment to a van.
We load the trunks. Wren checks the list. Grayson heads back inside to grab the last set of stick bags, leaving me and Wren alone by the open van doors.
Not really alone. The rink entrance is twenty feet away. Donnelly is inside. Half the team is nearby making bad decisions.
Still, the air changes.
Wren runs her pen down the clipboard. “Black trunks, skate bag, spare helmets, medical kit…”
Her voice fades when she realizes I’m watching her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That sounded like something.”
“You’re good at this.”
She looks down at the clipboard again. “It’s towels and lists, Kai.”
“It’s details.”
“I’ve had practice with details.”
There’s an edge under that. Not sharp enough to cut, but enough to remind me to be careful.
“With your siblings?” I ask.
“With life.”
The answer is simple. Too simple. A whole room of things packed into two words.
My throat tightens.
I want to ask.
I don’t.
She clicks the pen once. “That face again.”
“What face now?”
“The one where you’re trying not to ask if I’m okay.”
I breathe out through my nose. “Are you?”
Her eyes meet mine.
For a second, I think she won’t answer. Then her shoulders drop, barely.
“I’m here,” she says.
That isn’t an answer.
It’s probably the only one she has.
I nod. “Okay.”
She studies me like she expected me to push and doesn’t know what to do when I don’t. There’s a small line between her brows, the one she gets when she’s deciding if she can trust a moment.
I remember that too.
I remember too much.
The door behind us opens, and the moment breaks.
Weston comes out carrying a bag over one shoulder. “I have arrived with supplies and emotional support.”
Wren looks at the bag. “Is that yours?”
“No idea.”
“Comforting.”
Grayson appears behind him with the stick bags. “He took it because it was near his foot.”
“It felt assigned to me,” Weston says.
Donnelly’s voice booms from inside. “Cooper, if you stole someone’s gear bag again, I’m making you walk to Oregon.”
Weston freezes. “Again, feels a little harsh.”
Wren closes her eyes briefly, like she’s praying for patience.
When she opens them, she catches me looking.
This time, neither of us look away fast enough.
Her lips part slightly. Mine go dry.
There are people around us. Noise. Bags. A road trip to prep for. A storm coming in. Every reason in the world to look anywhere else.
I don’t.
Neither does she.
Then Grayson coughs.
Subtle as a car alarm.
Wren drops her gaze to the clipboard. “Right. Last bag?”
“Last bag,” Grayson confirms.
“Great.” She turns toward Donnelly. “If that’s everything, I have class in twenty minutes.”
Donnelly nods. “Go. Tomorrow, bus at one. Be here by twelve-fifteen.”
Wren pauses. “Tomorrow?”
The hallway seems to still. Donnelly looks at her over his glasses. “You’re on the travel list.”
Her face changes, and I can tell she wasn’t expecting to go on this trip. “I am?”
Donnley lifts a brow in her direction. “You’re equipment staff.”
“I know, I just…” She stops and adjusts the clipboard against her chest. “I didn’t realize I was traveling this weekend.”
“We need hands. Assistant manager has the flu, and the other student worker has a lab he can’t miss. Work-study approved the hours, so you’re up.”
Wren glances at me, then away. Nope, she hadn’t known.
Donnelly keeps going, unaware or uncaring that the ground just shifted under us. “Hotel rooms are already assigned. You’ll bunk with the staff.”
“Right,” Wren says. “Okay, I can do that.”
Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She checks the screen, and her careful work face slips for half a second, stress leaking into her entire body.
“I have to go,” she says.
Donnelly nods. “Tomorrow. Twelve-fifteen.”
“Got it.” She turns, and her shoulder brushes mine as she passes.
She walks down the hall without looking back.
I watch her go.
Grayson steps up beside me. “You’re staring.”
I nod. “I know.”
He looks at me. I look at him.
“No defense?” he asks.
I rub the back of my neck. “Not a good one.”
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “That’s progress, I guess.”
It doesn’t feel like progress.
Instead, it feels like being pulled into her all over again. Wanting to be there, to help her even when she won’t admit she needs help, to be someone she can count on, no matter what that means for me.
It feels like standing on the edge of something and knowing I’m going to step off even if it breaks my heart all over again.