15. Wren #2
I’ve watched hockey before. Obviously, I grew up around it because of Kai, and high school Kai used to look for me in the stands like seeing my face was part of his routine. I’ve seen him play hundreds of times.
But watching from near the bench is different.
Everything is closer here. The slam of bodies into boards, the barked calls from the bench. Coach’s voice cutting through the noise. Players launching themselves over the boards in shifts so quick I don’t understand how they don’t collide every time.
Kai wins the opening faceoff.
Of course he does.
The puck snaps back, Grayson catches it, and the whole team moves like one organism. Fast yet controlled.
My stomach flips as I watch, but it has nothing to do with the game.
It’s all because of him.
Kai on the ice is a version of Kai stripped down to the truth.
He doesn’t hesitate out there. Doesn’t over explain.
Doesn’t apologize for taking up space. He reads, moves, commands.
He points once, and Weston shifts without arguing.
He taps his stick, and Grayson sends the puck exactly where he expects it.
He leans into contact and comes out with possession.
He’s beautiful in a way that pisses me off.
I don’t want to be impressed.
But I am.
The first period is scoreless, but not quiet. PCU gets two good chances, one off Weston’s stick that hits the post and sends him skating back to the bench with both hands on his helmet. Asher shuts down a breakaway with a glove save so clean the crowd erupts right before the whistle blows.
When Kai comes off after a long shift, his breathing is hard, cheeks flushed, hair damp under his helmet. He grabs a water bottle from the top of the boards, squirts once, then looks over his shoulder.
At me.
It’s quick. Still, my skin warms.
“Calloway,” Donnelly says from behind me. “Towels.”
“Right.”
I collect, stack, replace. I keep my head down. I remind myself that this is work. I’m here for hours and money, because my financial aid situation is still a flaming pile of trash.
My appeal still hasn't been processed, and Dad is now thirteen months behind on child support, which, if you do the math, is a butt load of money for four minor children.
Not because Kai looks for me when he comes off the ice.
In the second period, everything gets messier.
Their defense plays heavy, and PCU answers.
The hits get harder. The crowd gets louder.
Coach’s jaw gets tighter. Coleson takes a lazy shift that makes Donnelly mutter something under his breath beside me, and even I can see he peels off too early instead of finishing the backcheck.
Kai sees it too.
He says something to Coleson when they hit the bench, and it’s not received well by the way Coleson’s mouth flattens.
Finally, Grayson scores.
The bench explodes. Weston nearly climbs over the boards, even though he is not on the ice. Asher taps the crossbar with his stick like that was his contribution. Kai gets to Grayson first, glove hitting his helmet, grin wide and real.
My chest pinches.
I used to get that grin.
By the end of the second, PCU is up 1–0, and I’ve successfully avoided eye contact with Kai for nine minutes, which feels like an accomplishment.
Harlow texts me during intermission.
Harlow: You’re staring quite a lot at my brother.
Wren: And you’re staring at Grayson.
Harlow: Mine definitely knows I’m staring.
Wren: Sadly.
Harlow: He keeps looking for you.
I stare at the message before locking my phone.
Nope.
The third period starts with absolute chaos.
The other team ties it on a deflection that Asher never sees. PCU answers by playing faster, but fast can get desperate if no one controls it.
That’s where Kai comes in. I can see him doing it shift by shift.
Talking on the bench, tapping Weston’s shin with his stick when Weston gets too heated.
Catching Grayson’s eye after a bad bounce.
Even saying something to Coleson that makes the guy roll his shoulders and actually finish a hit clean.
He carries so much.
I knew that before, though I didn’t understand it. Not really.
At home, I carry things because if I don’t, someone smaller than me might drop them. Kai carries things because everyone keeps handing them to him, and he keeps proving he can hold more.
Maybe that’s why we used to fit.
Or maybe that’s why we broke.
With four minutes left, Kai jumps over the boards onto the ice.
The shift starts in the defensive zone. Faceoff to his left. He crouches low, one hand loose on his stick, eyes locked on the puck. The arena noise fades in that weird way it does when something important is about to happen.
The puck drops.
Kai wins it.
PCU breaks out fast. Grayson up the wall. Weston cutting through neutral ice. Kai trailing, then accelerating like someone pulled a wire tight. The pass comes back to him just inside the blue line, and for half a second, he has no lane.
Then he makes one.
He cuts around the defenseman, shoulder low, puck tight, and everything in my body stops. The goalie drops. Kai pulls left, waits a breath longer than feels possible, then snaps the puck high.
Top corner.
The rink detonates.
The horn blares. The student section loses its mind. Weston crashes into him first, then Grayson, then half the line. Kai disappears under gloves and helmets and bodies, but I see enough.
He turns back toward the bench, his eyes finding mine. The smile on his face is real. Proud.
Across the noise. Across all of it.
My throat tightens so hard it almost hurts.
I should look away. I don’t.
PCU wins 2–1.
The locker room after a win is a different animal. Louder, for sure, full of adrenaline and bad music. I stay near the equipment side with Donnelly until enough players are changed or mostly decent, then push the laundry cart through to collect towels and jerseys.
Weston is still in half his gear, towel around his neck. “Be honest,” he says when I pass. “Who was more impressive today, me or Kai?”
“Well, Kai didn’t get benched for not listening to Coach, so…”
Asher, already showered, walks by with his suit jacket over one arm. “You sat on the bench for the last minute because Coach told you not to move.”
I toss a towel into the cart. “I’m with Asher. He pretty much put you in timeout.”
Weston clutches his chest. “Betrayed by the duchess.”
“Stop trying to make duchess happen.”
“Oh, baby, it’s happening.”
I laugh despite myself, and it feels good. Maybe this job doesn’t have to be all tension and old wounds. Maybe I can have parts of this place that don’t belong to Kai.
Then Kai walks out of the locker area in dress pants and a white undershirt, towel in his hand, hair damp and pushed back from his face.
So much for that theory.
His eyes find mine immediately.
My laugh fades but doesn’t disappear. Weston’s gaze darts between us, and for once, his expression softens before he covers it with a grin.
“I’m going to go be available somewhere else.” He brushes past me, bumping my shoulder lightly. “Good work tonight, Wren.”
Him using my actual name is a momentary shock.
He winks, but the warmth is real. “Don’t tell anyone I gave up on your nickname.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
He leaves with Asher, still talking, while Kai stays behind.
The locker room is clearing out around us. Not empty, but quieter now, the chaos of the win settling into tired satisfaction.
“Good game.” I grip the cart handle. “Your goal was…good.”
His brows lift. “Just good?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
His smile grows, and there it is again. The little break in his control. The version of him I used to get in hallways and driveways and after games when he found me by the locker room waiting for him.
My heart does something that it most definitely shouldn’t.
A freshman calls Kai’s name from across the room, asking about tomorrow’s lift time. Kai answers without looking away from me. “Ten.”
Kai’s eyes are still on mine. I swallow.
“Captain things,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“You should do those.”
“I am.”
“By standing here?”
“I’m checking supplies and making sure everyone will be well prepared.”
I glance at the laundry cart. “That excuse is getting weak.”
“It was never strong.”
I bite back a smile, and his gaze drops to my mouth.
Only for a second.
A dangerous one.
The air changes. My fingers tighten around the cart. Somewhere behind him, Coach’s voice cuts through the hallway, calling for postgame media and making half the team groan. The moment breaks before it can become anything else.
Kai exhales, almost a laugh, but there’s frustration in it too. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
He looks like he wants to say something, but must think better of it. “Get home safe.”
I do my best to mask the heavy weight of disappointment that crashes into me. “You too.”
He nods before turning and walking away.
Whatever this is that’s happening between us, it’s getting harder to pretend I don’t already know where it’s going.