Kiss Me First (PCU Ice Storm #1)

Chapter 1

GRAYSON

I’m not saying I’d commit crimes for eight hours of sleep…but I’m also not not saying that.

Shit, I’d do some very questionable things for even a few uninterrupted hours.

If Coach Graves asks why I’m moving like a sloth on skates today, I’ll tell him I slept like a baby. I’ll even smile when I say it, because lying is a skill set you pick up when you’ve spent your entire life being expected to perform on command.

But the truth is, I spent four hours staring at my ceiling, then gave up and started stretching in the dark like some kind of haunted, overachieving yogi. Because that’s what happens when you’re a dedicated athlete with an off switch that’s apparently been recalled by the manufacturer.

According to the clock above the hallway to our locker room, it’s just after seven in the morning. I’m running on two broken hours of sleep and enough caffeine to power a small country.

By definition, I should feel wrecked.

Instead, I’m wired because my brain won’t stop replaying the message I got around two a.m. from the girl I’ve been talking to for the last few weeks.

I don’t know her name. I don’t know her face. I don’t even know if she likes hockey or hates it or has ever set foot inside this rink.

I just know she’s started showing up in the quiet spaces between things.

And that’s dangerous.

Honestly? I think about her a lot more than I should. Especially when I need to focus.

“Bennett!” Coach Graves’ voice cracks across the rink like a whip, jarring me out of my head. “You planning to skate today, or you just gonna stand there looking pretty?”

A voice slides past me, amused and entirely too awake for this time of morning. “Who says he can’t do both?”

Weston Cooper. Our left winger and the human embodiment of chaos on skates. He grins at me from under his cage, blue eyes bright with nothing good, dirty-blond hair already plastered to his forehead even though practice hasn’t technically started.

Could be from last night. Could be from this morning. With Weston, time is a suggestion.

“Shut up,” I mutter, pushing off the boards.

The ice glides under my blades, cold and clean and honest. It’s the only thing that makes sense most days, even though it’s also been the biggest stressor lately.

Four strides and I’m flying, cold air burning my lungs, the rink waking up around me in a familiar rhythm—the scrape of blades, the slap of pucks, the sharp bite of Coach’s whistle.

Hockey has always been the one thing I believed I could control. The one thing that stayed the same when everything else shifted.

The problem is that control is an illusion.

Scouts. Senior year. The way every mistake suddenly feels like it has my future attached to it like a price tag.

And the way I can’t sleep like a normal person.

“Line up!” Coach barks.

We snap into formation. Weston is already beside me because the man treats personal space like it’s optional.

On my other side is Asher Hale, our goalie.

I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen him worked up, on the ice or off.

Dark hair, dark eyes, and the kind of steady presence that makes everyone else seem like a collection of bad decisions by comparison.

He’s a junior this year and an absolute monster in the net.

Behind us—silent as a predator—is Kai Mercer.

My roommate, our star center and team captain. The guy who can silence a locker room with one look and somehow make it feel like it was your idea to behave.

His stare catches mine through the cage and holds. He jerks his chin once.

You ready?

I nod, lying.

Kai’s mouth twitches, but it’s enough to make Weston perk up like a dog that just heard a squeaky toy.

“Holy shit,” Weston says, delighted. “Mercer smiled. Somebody call the school paper.”

“I didn’t smile,” Kai says.

“You did. I saw it,” Weston insists.

Asher exhales slowly. “Can we not do this before I’ve had any coffee?”

“We don’t need coffee,” Weston says. “We run just fine on childhood trauma and protein.”

Coach’s whistle slices through the rink. “Regroup!”

We snap into the first drill—neutral-zone regroups into controlled entries. Tape-to-tape passes. Head up. Feet moving. Coach wants the puck moving faster than your thoughts.

I can do that.

The puck snaps between us like a conversation in another language I’m fluent in. I take a clean pass from Weston, touch it once, and send it straight at the net.

Asher’s there, just like he always is. The puck hits his pads with a dull thud and dies.

Coach doesn’t say anything. Just nods like that’s the bare minimum and anything less is a disappointment.

“Again!”

We run it again. And again. And again.

My lungs burn. My legs start filing formal complaints. And finally—finally—my brain goes quiet.

For a few minutes, the only thing that exists is the feel of ice under my skates and the familiar ache in my muscles that tells me I’m alive.

It’s a relief in the most messed-up way. I shouldn’t have to run myself into the ground to get a few minutes of peace from my own thoughts, but here we are.

“Corner battles!” Coach Graves claps his hands once, too cheerful for a man who clearly enjoys suffering. “Two on two. Richards, Bennett—you’re up first.”

Of course.

Coleson Richards is a newer transfer to Pacific Coast University. He’s good, I’ll give him that, but he’s also a cocky son of a bitch with zero control over his mouth. He likes to run it. Often.

Coach loves pairing us up because he thinks iron sharpens iron.

Kai hates pairing us up because he thinks Coleson is a liability.

Weston waits in line behind me, and I can feel him grinning before he even opens his mouth.

“Bennett’s about to get wrecked…” he sings under his breath.

“Weston,” I say without looking back, “I will end you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” he says, delighted.

Asher skates past us, not even bothering to hide the glare he throws Coleson before shifting it to Weston. “If you two are done flirting, some of us would like to practice so we can get out of here.”

Weston gasps like he’s been scandalized. “Ash, my man—are you jealous? There’s more than enough of me to go around.” Asher’s response is to tap his stick against the ice twice.

Focus.

My eyes snap back to Coach just as he drops the puck into the corner.

I explode off the line, get there first, and pin it with my skates.

Coleson arrives like a freight train. If he were Kai—who I’m normally paired up with—he wouldn’t hit dirty in practice.

Kai plays clean and smart and still manages to make you feel like you got hit by a truck.

But Coleson isn’t Kai. He only wishes he were.

He slams into me at full force. The puck pops free.

“OOOOH!” Weston’s voice echoes through the rink. “Coleson, bro, lighten up on the hits!”

I grind my teeth.

Coleson’s voice is low, close to my ear. “What’s wrong, Bennett? That’s seriously the best you can do?”

I twist my head slightly, our cages mere inches apart. “You enjoying this?” I mutter.

His mouth morphs into a cocky smirk. “A lot.”

We reset. Coach drops another puck. This time, I take a wider stance, dropping my center of gravity. I’ve been playing against assholes like this long enough to clock their habits fast. I take the contact, roll my hips, and kick the puck out with my skate instead of trying to muscle it.

It slides into the slot.

Asher’s already there—because of course he is—but I know where his weaker spots are.

I shoot.

The net pops.

Score.

Coach’s whistle cuts through the arena. “That’s it! That’s the play, Bennett!”

Weston throws his arms up like he participated. “I assisted spiritually.”

I’m coasting back to the line when Kai glides in front of Coleson, but he doesn’t touch him. He doesn’t need to. Kai gets his attention instantly, meeting Coleson’s eyes as he says, “We go hard, but we don’t go stupid.”

Coleson’s smirk falters, but Kai’s gaze doesn’t.

“Coach,” Kai calls, voice level, the way a captain keeps it clean. “Can we keep contact controlled? We’ve got a game this week.”

Coach Graves looks like he wants to argue on principle, but he also respects Kai more than he’ll ever admit out loud. “Fine,” he barks. “Control yourself, Richards. Keep it moving.”

Coleson says nothing and skates back into line.

And for the rest of the drill, he plays like someone who suddenly remembers there are consequences.

I head to the bench for water, and that’s when I see him.

The scout by the glass wearing a dark sweatshirt, a clipboard in one hand, his cellphone in the other. His expression is bored enough to look like he’s watching paint dry while simultaneously holding my future by the balls. My stomach squeezes before I can stop it.

Weston follows my gaze and whistles low. “Your boyfriend’s back.”

“I didn’t get enough sleep to deal with you today,” I say, taking a long drink from my bottle.

Weston’s grin shifts, just slightly—something softer under the joke. “Relax. He’s probably here for Kai anyway.” He’s lying, and we both know it, but I appreciate the effort.

Kai skates by, unbothered, like the scout doesn’t even exist. No—worse. Like he’s trained himself not to acknowledge pressure because the moment he does, it becomes contagious.

Must be nice.

After our quick break, Coach runs us through one final set—full-speed controlled entries, quick strikes, and high-tempo chaos. The kind of drill that separates guys who think they’re ready for the next level from guys who actually are.

“Make it count!” Coach yells.

We go again. Catch. Drive. Dish. Shoot.

Practice ends with a bag skate because Coach Graves apparently believes happiness is a distraction and suffering builds character. We’re probably going to be a problem for other teams this year—and it’s definitely because he’s torturing us into shape.

The locker room explodes into noise the second we stagger through the doors—guys talking over each other, tape ripping, showers turning on, the chaos of twenty college hockey players who just got their asses kicked and are pretending they’re fine.

Our program is newer to PCU, which means our facilities are shiny and updated, yet we still somehow feel like we’re living in the shadow of football.

They’ve got a new transfer, and they’re having the best year in school history.

This season, though? That changes. It has to.

I drop onto the bench between Weston and Asher, and every muscle in my body starts staging a revolt.

“I’m retiring,” Weston announces, tipping his head back against his locker. “Effective immediately.”

Kai sits down across from us, already unlacing his skates with the calm efficiency of someone who didn’t just crawl through hell. Captains don’t get to act like they’re dying, even when they are.

“We’re still in college,” Kai says. “You’ll be here again tomorrow.”

“Cruel,” Weston wheezes dramatically. “You’re just cruel, Mercer.”

Asher is already peeling off his gear, somehow still looking like a functional human being. It’s annoying.

“If you’re done being dramatic,” Asher says, “we have class in forty minutes.”

Weston points at me without opening his eyes. “Bennett’s not going. Or if he does, he won’t be paying attention.”

I blink. “I’m absolutely going to class.”

Weston’s eyes snap open, grin going feral. “No. You’re not.”

Asher raises an eyebrow, looking between us. “Why wouldn’t he?”

Weston leans forward like he’s about to drop breaking news. “Because he’s got a little secret pen pal.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “It’s not a pen pal.”

Kai’s mouth twitches. The traitor. “It’s definitely a pen pal.”

“It’s a forum,” I say tightly. “PCU insomnia thread. It’s—” I search for the least embarrassing word. “A resource. And I mostly use it at night when you assholes are all sleeping peacefully and don’t reply to my texts.”

“A resource,” Weston repeats slowly, savoring it. “Is that what we’re calling your mysterious internet girlfriend?”

“She’s not my—” I stop, running a hand down my face. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve had this same conversation. “I don’t even know her name.”

Weston looks personally delighted by that. “I know. It makes you look even more pitiful.”

“Asher,” I say flatly, “please tell him to stop.”

Asher considers it like he’s mediating a hostage situation, and then his eyes flick back to me. I already hate what I know is coming from the slight grin hiding on his face.

“I gotta go with Weston on this one, Bennett,” Asher says. “I’ve never really done the whole secret admirer thing.”

Weston howls with laughter. I flip them both off and yank off my shirt, trying to ignore the way my phone buzzes inside my bag. Two notifications. And since almost everyone I talk to is in this room, I can pretty much guarantee both of them are from her. My thumb itches to reach for it.

But I don’t.

Not here, with Weston already vibrating with the need to make my suffering a full team effort.

Kai sees my hesitation anyway, because Kai sees everything.

His eyes flick to my bag, then back to my face.

There’s no accusation there. Just the calm, assessing look he uses on the ice when he’s trying to decide whether you’re about to make a smart play or a selfish one.

And maybe that’s the problem. Because I’m not sure anymore.

Kai stands, finished unlacing his skates, already peeling off the upper layers of gear. “Party at Carter’s tonight. Logan says it’s gonna be insane.”

Weston perks up instantly, exhaustion forgotten. “Football house?”

“Yeah,” Kai says. “Brooks also said half the girls’ basketball team is going.”

Weston’s eyes light up. “Say less.”

Asher sighs, already looking tired. “You know we will have homework.”

“We always have homework,” Weston counters. “But it’s Friday night, and we only have our youth once. And also, Hale—you need to socialize with humans who aren’t wearing hockey equipment.”

“I socialize,” Asher says, deadpan.

“Team meetings don’t count.”

“They absolutely count.”

Kai’s gaze lands on me, voice cutting through the bickering. Not sharp. Not loud. Just final.

“You gonna come, Bennett?”

I shrug, aiming for casual. “Maybe.”

Kai stares at me for a beat too long, and I can practically see him doing the math. Friday night. No game tomorrow. Yet he knows the chances of me going to another party this year are slim to none—especially at the football house and hosted by Carter Hayes.

Kai doesn’t make me give him an answer. He just nods and heads for the showers like a man filing it away for later. Captain Mercer doesn’t interrogate you in public. He waits until he gets you alone to pounce. And the worst part is—

I know—know—he already knows exactly what I’ll be doing tonight.

Not Carter’s.

Not the football house.

I’ll be in my room, lights off, phone in my hand, waiting for a username to light up my screen. Waiting for the only person who doesn’t expect anything from me to show up anyway.