Chapter 2
GRAYSON
After sitting through classes and sneaking in another weight session, I’m too exhausted to hit the grocery store. So I swing by the dining hall, shovel something vaguely edible into my system, and tell myself that counts as being a functioning adult.
By the time I park my truck next to Kai’s and drag my bag toward our apartment, my body is running on fumes and habit.
The place Kai and I share is exactly what you’d expect from two senior hockey players: clean-ish, barely decorated, furnished with hand-me-down couches, and the kind of minimalist practicality that says, We spend money on skates, not throw pillows.
It works.
Kai’s always home first on Fridays, and sure enough, the second I open the door, he’s wiping down counters that were already clean.
“You’re stress-cleaning again,” I say, toeing the door shut behind me and dropping my bag by the entry.
“I’m cleaning,” he corrects without looking up.
“You only clean things that are already clean when you’re stressed.”
Kai opens the fridge and stares into it like it personally betrayed him. It’s the same way he stares at opposing forwards when they think they can sneak around the boards.
“We need groceries,” he says.
“We have food.”
“We have eggs, pickles, and sadness.”
I smirk and collapse onto the couch like my spine is optional. “Eggs are elite.”
Kai finally looks over, one dark eyebrow raised. “You’re an eighty-year-old trapped in a twenty-one-year-old’s body.”
“Senior year has aged me,” I say, because it’s easier than admitting my brain is a constant highlight reel of everything I have to be.
Chasing a future for not only myself, but also for my brother, who never got the chance.
It puts an insane amount of pressure on every decision I make, but no one seems to understand that.
Probably because I’ve never told anyone the truth.
“Not an excuse.”
He leans back against the counter with his arms crossed, and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m being evaluated.
Kai does this constantly—goes quiet, watches, catalogs.
It’s what makes him a great player and an even better team captain.
Captain Mercer doesn’t guess. He reads the play before it happens. Right now, he’s reading me.
“So,” he says slowly.
I narrow my eyes. “So what?”
“You going to Carter’s,” he asks, voice deceptively casual, “or are you staying in to message your mystery girl?”
“She’s not—” I stop myself. I can already hear Weston in my head, cackling. “I’m not staying in for her. Plus, we both saw how the party went a couple weeks ago when Hayes saw me dancing with Lyla. I don’t need him putting a target on my back.”
Kai’s eyebrow lifts higher. “Whatever you have to tell yourself. You’re staying in because you love being alone on a Friday night.”
“I love sleep,” I lie.
“Bennett.” His stare is flat. “You haven’t slept well in years.”
Touché.
I grab the nearest object—a pillow—and hurl it at him. He catches it one-handed without even looking like he tried.
“Go be a menace elsewhere,” I tell him.
“Oh, I will.” He hesitates, and the shift is subtle but real. The captain drops. The brother—my roommate, my best friend—shows up under the armor. “Just…be careful, yeah?”
I frown. “It’s a school forum, Kai. Not the dark web.”
“I know.” His jaw ticks once. “Just—she could be anyone. Maybe not even a chick.”
“She’s not a catfish.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough,” I say, and I hate that it comes out defensive.
Kai studies me for a long beat, like he’s deciding whether to push or let me have the space to make my own dumb decisions. Then he exhales and shakes his head, backing off like he does on the ice when he’s choosing discipline over impulse.
“Don’t fall in love with a username,” he says, and there’s a warning in it that isn’t just about me. It’s about what happens when feelings become a distraction. What happens when the room senses weakness. What happens when the captain loses control of the narrative.
“Go wash your balls, Mercer.”
His mouth twitches, and then he laughs—an actual laugh, which is rare enough that Weston would probably throw a parade if he were here to witness it. Kai disappears down the hallway to get ready, and a minute later I hear the shower turn on.
The apartment stills. As it does, my chest loosens like my body’s been waiting for it. I head to my room, dump my bag by the bed, and for the first time all day, I let myself open the forum.
Two notifications. Both from her.
My mouth pulls into a grin before I can stop it, and I hate how immediate the reaction is. Like my mood is a switch she can flip without even trying.
I open the messages.
LittleTooMuch: Did you sleep at all?
LittleTooMuch: Dumb question. Your situation is about as helpless as mine.
I type back fast, like I’m relaxed. Like I haven’t been waiting to talk to her again since six a.m., a few hours after finally saying goodnight.
NumberEleven: same old, same old last night, unfortunately. you?
Her dots appear immediately.
LittleTooMuch: Ugh same. I even tried chamomile tea. It wasn’t worth the experiment.
A small chuckle escapes me against my will.
NumberEleven: tea is kinda gross.
LittleTooMuch: THANK YOU. Finally, someone says it.
NumberEleven: that’s me. always the one to say what everyone else is thinking.
LittleTooMuch: Any big plans tonight?
I pause, thumbs hovering.
The answer is no.
And I’m not getting into why the idea of yelling over music in a house packed with drunk freshmen feels like a personal hell or that I’d honestly rather talk to her than do literally anything else.
So I don’t.
NumberEleven: nah. roommate tried to guilt me into it. but i resisted.
LittleTooMuch: Strong-willed and knows what he wants. I respect that.
A moment passes before another message appears.
LittleTooMuch: Unless you just stayed in to talk to me…
My chest does something stupid, and even though no one can see me, the tips of my ears heat up.
Blushing over a message. Real smooth, Bennett.
NumberEleven: don’t flatter yourself.
LittleTooMuch: Too late. I’m fully flattered.
NumberEleven: good. you should be.
LittleTooMuch: You ever think about how weird this is?
My stomach dips. Does she not want to talk to me anymore? Is this not the part of her day she looks forward to like I do?
I force myself to keep it light.
NumberEleven: weird how?
LittleTooMuch: We’re on the same campus. Probably walked past each other a hundred times. You could be the guy who held the door for me at the library. Or the one who always takes the last blueberry muffin at the dining hall.
I snort.
NumberEleven: i would never take the last muffin. i have morals.
LittleTooMuch: SEE. That’s a clue. Haven’t you ever seen Criminal Minds? I’m building a profile. Just call me Spencer Reid.
NumberEleven: what do you have so far?
LittleTooMuch: Polite. Insomniac. Athlete—don’t deny it. You mentioned 6 a.m. practice once. Probably wouldn’t murder me if we met in person.
I stare at the word athlete for a second too long.
She doesn’t know it’s hockey. Doesn’t know it’s my senior year.
Doesn’t know there are scouts in the stands sometimes, holding clipboards like they’re holding my entire life.
She just knows I get up early and I’m tired all the time.
It’s…oddly nice. Someone getting to know me before deciding who I am.
NumberEleven: “probably” is doing a lot of work in that sentence.
LittleTooMuch: Keeps me on my toes.
NumberEleven: you should. i’m extremely dangerous.
LittleTooMuch: Oh really?
NumberEleven: i even had cereal for dinner. pure chaos.
LittleTooMuch: Oh my god. You are a bad boy.
I grin at my phone like an idiot.
NumberEleven: what can i say? i live on the edge.
Her dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
LittleTooMuch: What if we’ve already met?
I don’t answer right away, because I don’t know. Talking to her like this is easy. It’s words and a screen and the comfort of not having to perform. Real life is messy and loud and full of people who think they’re entitled to your best version all the time.
Still—
NumberEleven: would that be bad?
Her response comes fast.
LittleTooMuch: No, I don’t think so.
My chest warms at the simplicity of it.
NumberEleven: good.
A beat passes, and I worry I accidentally ended the conversation with my one-word caveman response, but then she sends:
LittleTooMuch: But also…kind of terrifying?
NumberEleven: haha yeah, just a little.
LittleTooMuch: Because right now, you’re the only person who doesn’t expect anything from me. I kind of need that.
I read her message twice. Because—yeah. That’s the part I don’t say out loud. Not to Weston, not to Asher, and definitely not to Kai, who would immediately turn it into a risk assessment. She’s the only place I don’t feel like I have to be on.
I stare at my phone, then type what I can admit.
NumberEleven: same.
Her dots appear again, slower this time, like she’s thinking.
LittleTooMuch: Okay. Here’s a thought.
NumberEleven: i’m listening.
LittleTooMuch: What if we keep it like this? No names, no faces, no weird expectations.
I exhale through my nose.
Thank fuck.
Because I’m not ready for names and faces either, but I’m not about to admit that. Not when pride is basically stitched into my jersey.
NumberEleven: sounds good to me.
LittleTooMuch: But eventually…
My stomach does a weird flip.
NumberEleven: eventually?
LittleTooMuch: Eventually I might want to know who you are.
There it is. The inevitable.
I stare at the message like it’s going to rewrite itself into something less terrifying.
I can picture it too easily: a face, a name, a real person.
Someone I could accidentally disappoint.
Someone who might look at me and see the last name first. Or worse—someone whose life is already tangled with mine in a way I can’t afford.
I type the only answer I can live with right now.
NumberEleven: we’ll see.
A pause.
LittleTooMuch: That’s fair.
I hate how relieved I feel. So I make a joke, because jokes are safer than confessions.
NumberEleven: for the record, your profiling skills are terrible.
LittleTooMuch: Excuse you. I nailed the “polite” thing.
NumberEleven: debatable.
LittleTooMuch: You said you wouldn’t steal the last muffin. That’s basically a marriage proposal.
I laugh—quiet, real—and shake my head like she can see me.
We go back and forth for a while longer, and then I shower. I watch film. I try to focus on our first few games and pretend my life is just hockey and class and the familiar grind. It works for about ten minutes.
Then my phone lights up again.
NumberEleven: go to sleep, little detective.
LittleTooMuch: Ooooo he’s also bossy. I like it.
NumberEleven: we need to at least attempt to sleep sometimes.
LittleTooMuch: Have fun with that. I’m headed to a party with my brother against my will. Goodnight.
NumberEleven: goodnight.
I set my phone down and lean back against my headboard, staring at the ceiling.
Somewhere on this campus there’s a girl who can’t sleep, who hates tea, who makes jokes to survive her own thoughts—same as me.
Somewhere on this campus there’s someone who makes my chest feel warm and tight with one sentence and doesn’t even know she has that kind of power.
And I still don’t know her name.
For now, that’s the rule. No names. No faces. No expectations. Just the quiet. Just her.
And the growing, inconvenient truth that I’m going to want more eventually, too.