Daisy
I’ve been replaying the conversation with Grizz in my head for twenty-four hours straight. It loops the way a song does when you’re not ready to let go of it, the refrain hitting harder each time, its words inescapable.
It wasn’t even a long conversation. Just a handful of sentences, really.
After we made out behind Onyx—after he kissed me in a way that was far more than casual—we separated long enough for oxygen to re-enter the universe. And that’s when he said it, so casually it almost felt accidental. “I’m taking you out tomorrow on a date.”
Not Would you like to go out with me? Or Maybe we should have dinner sometime. Not even the classic Grizz version of affection, which would resemble I’m hungry. You’re coming with me.
He said, “I’m taking you out on a date.”
A statement, but not a command. Like he’d already made the choice and was giving me the luxury of pretending I had one too.
I managed to ask, “Date… a real date?”
He shrugged, which is Grizz-speak for Yes, but if I say yes out loud, I’ll burst into flames. Then he added, “Don’t make it weird.”
Which, of course, made it unbelievably weird.
But underneath the deflection, the shrug, the boyish scowl he tried to hide behind, I could feel the thing I’d been wondering since we first slept together: He cares. He won’t say it, but if he didn’t, it’s hard to believe he would want to go on an actual date.
A real one. And it’s the “real” part that has my stomach doing Olympic-level gymnastics as I ride the elevator up to the restaurant. The doors open and warm air drifts toward me. The hallway is dim, lit by candles set into the walls.
The hostess greets me with a welcoming smile and leads me through a narrow vestibule. When we step out onto the rooftop, the city opens around us.
It’s stunning.
The rooftop dining area is small—maybe ten tables total—each one spaced far enough apart that conversations feel private.
The ceiling is retractable glass, currently open, letting in the cool night air and the sound of the Hudson moving slowly and dark beneath us.
Lanterns swing gently from wires overhead, casting warm pools of golden light across slate floors and linen-draped tables.
Far off, the Statue of Liberty glows muted green, and across the river, New Jersey’s skyline twinkles.
The hostess guides me to a table near the edge with two chairs, one candle, and a pair of empty wineglasses next to the silver cutlery. My heartbeat stutters when I see it.
Grizz did not choose this accidentally. This isn’t a place you stumble upon. This is when a guy has a plan and is possibly, if not dangerously, romantic. I lower into my seat, smoothing the skirt of my dress, desperate to calm my nerves.
He’s going so far out of his comfort zone, it means that he actually cares about me… about us. The realization sits warm and bright in my chest.
I let my fingers trace the stem of the wineglass, trying not to smile like an idiot. Every part of this—the exclusivity, the date, the way he looked at me last night—feels like stepping into a story I told myself for years I wasn’t allowed to want.
But tonight…
Tonight is real. It’s terrifying. And also, thrilling.
I exhale, glancing toward the elevator doors as he should be here any minute. And suddenly, everything inside me goes still and alive at once. The elevator doors slide open behind me with a soft metallic sigh.
I hear his footsteps first. As always, they’re confident, unhurried in that way that always feels like he bends the space around him instead of moving through it. Then the low hum of his voice as he checks in with the hostess, that deep timbre that carries even when he’s speaking softly.
I finally look.
Grizz steps into the rooftop glow dressed in a charcoal button-down and dark slacks that fit him unfairly well.
His hair is a little damp. Maybe he showered right before coming here.
Grizz in the shower – the image doesn’t help me stay calm.
He looks good… okay, great. His eyes find mine instantly, and the guard behind his gaze lowers.
He walks toward me, hands in his pockets until the last two steps, when one comes out as if he’s considering reaching for something—me? —before he stops himself.
“Hey,” he says.
I smile up at him. “Hey.”
He pulls out the chair across from me and sits, glancing around once before settling into the space. And then, almost offhandedly, he says, “You said once you like places without crowds. Figured this was better than some loud-ass steakhouse.”
My heart kicks because I did say that. That was three weeks ago and he remembered.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual and absolutely failing. “This is… perfect.”
The server arrives to take drink orders and I open my mouth, but Grizz beats me to it. “She’ll have the Gavi,” he says, nodding at the bottle the server is holding.
I blink. “Grizz—”
“You mentioned it at the Bartiz shoot,” he says with a shrug, eyes lowering as he flips the menu open. “Said you liked crisp whites.”
My throat warms. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”
He doesn’t look at me when he answers, but his voice is soft. “Contrary to popular belief, I do actually listen to you… occasionally.”
The server pours the wine and leaves us alone again. The candle flickers on our table, warm enough to make the moment feel intimate, and that terrifies me.
I take a sip to steady myself. “So… how’s your sister?”
His eyes lift to mine, for a millisecond like the instinct to reroute is automatic. But instead of shutting down or looking away, he leans back in his chair, exhales, and answers. “She’s hanging in there… trying to manage everything with my dad. It’s a lot for her.”
I nod, careful, gentle. “Is today better than yesterday?”
He rubs his thumb along the edge of his water glass. A grounding motion. “Yeah. She texted earlier. Said he remembered her name this morning. Didn’t remember what city he was in, but… the name thing? That’s something.”
It’s the most unguarded I’ve ever seen him.
“Yes, that’s good and I’m glad your sister is doing better. I can tell you two are very close.”
He watches me for a beat like he’s weighing whether to keep going, then, surprising both of us, he continues.
“You know… when we were kids, Eliza used to sneak me out of the house during my dad’s bad moods.
Usually to the rink. Sometimes just to the end of the road so we could get some distance from all the shit at home.
” He smirks faintly. “She was the tough one, even though everyone thinks that’s me. ”
He’s letting me in and he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “That must’ve been comforting to have her,” I murmur.
The waiter arrives again, taking our food order. Grizz then gathers himself for a moment.
“After my mom died, Eliza took on more of a mothering role.” He shrugs like he’s bored with the subject, but his voice betrays him.
“We didn’t have much. Small town and Dad spent every cent on hockey, even pawned his watch to get me the newest hockey skates one year.
Guess he saw something in me early. Maybe too early.
Maybe… too much.” He swallows. “Sometimes I don’t know if hockey saved me or fucked me up. ”
“I’d say it saved you.”
“Probably.” He says it quickly, not defensively. “Just… history.”
He looks away, into the darkness beyond the rooftop. His jaw flexes once, then releases. And for the first time since I’ve known him, I see something that isn’t the bravado or tortured player everyone knows. I see wonder. And fear.
He turns back to me. “Anyway. That’s enough of the sob story.”
I smile. “It’s not a sob story. It’s your life and I want to hear all about it. Whenever you want to share more, I’m always here and interested. Thank you for telling me.”
He lifts a shoulder. “You asked.”
There’s a moment—small but seismic—where his hand drifts across the table as if it’s moving toward mine. Not reaching, just drifting closer, as though drawn by instinct.
I hold my breath and his fingers almost graze the back of my hand.
Then he seems to reconsider and starts to pull back, but I’m not going to let him retreat. I grab onto it, ignore the reflex as he tugs it, and hold tight.
His eyes come up, and I sense vulnerability in him but I see the discomfort layered deeper. I decide to lighten the mood. “Tell me more about your path into professional hockey.”
Relief swirls in Grizz’s eyes and he launches into a monologue that I find fascinating, not really understanding the drive and commitment it takes to perform at his current level.
Dinner arrives in warm waves. Shared plates.
Engaging conversation. Moments where he actually laughs—real and surprised by it.
And moments where he watches me like he’s trying to memorize the evening in case he needs proof later that this happened.
By the time our shared dessert is gone and Grizz pays the bill, the city has transformed into its midnight glory. We walk to the elevator. Standing beside him makes me feel like a prize, the girl who got the guy everyone is ogling.
We step inside, the doors close, leaving us alone as we descend.
I look up at him. “This doesn’t feel casual,” I whisper.
“No. It doesn’t.”
We stare at each other the entire ride down and the elevator doors slide open into the lobby. We don’t decide whose place we’re going to. We just move and end up at mine.
The moment the door clicks shut behind us, he kisses me like he’s been holding himself back all night. Slow at first. Reverent. Then deeper and uninhibited. Primal.
His hands find my waist. Mine slide into his hair. The world narrows to breath and heat and the brush of his lips saying more than he ever has with words. When we finally make it to my bedroom, the sex is nothing like the messy alleyway or the impulsive nights before.
It’s slow, barely contained emotion in the shape of touch. By the time he’s thrusting inside me, forehead pressed to mine, breath shaking against my mouth, I realize it, this is totally new.
And the way he looks at me—uneasy, astonished, as though he’s holding a part of him that’s too precious and too dangerous to confront—tells me he feels it too.