Chapter 4
GRAYSON
Waking up at the ass crack of dawn on a Saturday should be illegal.
I lie there and stare at the ceiling, waiting for exhaustion to win.
It doesn’t.
I roll over, shoving my face harder into my pillow, like that’s going to knock my brain back into sleep. All it does is make me aware of how awake I am.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I want to ignore it. I don’t. I grab it immediately and see new texts in the group chat in response to Weston’s message from last night.
Weston: if anyone sees my dignity at carter’s, can u return it?
Asher: you’re alive. that’s a win.
Weston: i would rather be dead than hungover.
Kai: practice at 8. don’t be late.
Weston: mercer texted like an angry dad again. noted.
I smile despite myself, then lock my screen before my thumb can drift to the other notification.
The one I’ve trained myself not to treat like oxygen, barely.
The insomnia thread. I’m still not one hundred percent sure why they call it that when you can break off into private chats, but whatever.
I’m not checking it right now. I’m not desperate.
I toss my phone onto the other side of my bed like it offended me and drag myself into the shower.
Cold water and a quick scrub make for a solid half-hearted attempt at feeling more human. I dry off, throw on sweats and a hoodie, and shuffle into the kitchen like a zombie—which is pretty much how my body feels. Kai is already there. Of course he is.
Kai Mercer doesn’t believe in sleeping in. He’s at the counter in a PCU hoodie, pouring coffee like it’s a sacred ritual. I glance at the clock.
6:24.
“This is sick,” I tell him.
Kai doesn’t look up. “We have practice.”
He slides a mug toward me without asking, because he already knows I’ll take it.
One sip and my soul crawls back online just enough to feel annoyed instead of dead.
Second sip and I choke, bringing my arm up to cover the coughing fit that follows.
When Kai makes coffee, it’s strong enough to qualify as a performance-enhancing drug.
He’s already pulling breakfast together with the same efficiency he plays with: no wasted motion, no hesitation.
A few eggs and protein powder, the breakfast of two college hockey players who spend more time in the gym than in the grocery aisles.
I make a mental note to swing by the store today to grab some essentials.
I watch him work for a second and wonder, not for the first time, how someone can be both calm and terrifying at the same time.
“What’s the plan today?” I ask.
“We have practice, a lift, and then we have the team barbecue.”
I blink. “Team barbecue?”
He pauses like I’m slow. “I told you.”
“You told me in what language?” I ask. “Because it sure wasn’t one I’m fluent in.”
Kai’s eyes flick to mine. “You were on your phone.”
I point at him. “Slander.”
“It’s true,” he says, and while infuriating, he’s not wrong.
He turns back to the stove, then adds, casually like it’s a minor footnote, “And Harlow’s coming.”
I pause mid-sip.
“Harlow as in…your sister?” I ask, because apparently my brain needs to clarify he hasn’t acquired a random second Harlow.
Kai’s gaze sharpens. “Yes. Harlow as in my sister.”
“Cool,” I say quickly. “That’s cool.”
Kai watches me for a beat too long.
“What?” I ask.
Instead of barking be normal like he’s issuing a penalty, Kai exhales slowly and tilts his head.
“Just…don’t treat her like a project,” he says, his voice even. “She’s been here a month, and she’s still adjusting. Loud rooms are a lot for her.” He doesn’t say the rest, but I hear it anyway.
“I’m not going to be weird,” I say. “If Weston is coming, I’m the least of your concerns.”
Kai’s expression doesn’t change, but his tone softens a notch. “Good. And if you do say something stupid, just—own it. Don’t make her do the work of smoothing it over.”
That’s Kai’s version of tenderness: instruction that protects the person he loves.
I nod. “Got it.”
He nods once like the conversation is done, and then, because he can’t stop himself from building guardrails, he adds, “Also…she’s off-limits.”
“Jesus, Kai.” I set my mug down with a soft thunk. “I know. It’s not like I have the time for girls right now anyway.”
“I’m not accusing you,” he says, and for once it sounds like exactly that. “I’m just…reminding you to help me keep everyone respectful.” There it is. Captain Mercer. Team-first. Optics. Boundaries.
“I don’t need a reminder,” I mutter.
Kai’s jaw ticks. “Good.”
He plates breakfast, like that settles it. It does, technically. And it doesn’t. Because off-limits isn’t new. Kai’s been laying that law down since freshman year, long before Harlow ever set foot on campus. But now she’s actually here. In his world. In ours.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I pretend I don’t hear it, but Kai does. He always does. His gaze flicks to the phone, then back to me. “You sleeping at all?”
“Sure,” I lie. Kai doesn’t call me on my shit or ask again; he just takes a bite of eggs and files the lie away with the rest of my bad decisions.
The rink fixes my head enough to stop thinking about anything that isn’t directly in front of me.
Cold air. Bright lights. The smell of tape and rubber and ice—familiar in a way nothing else is.
The boards are scuffed with a thousand battles.
The glass is marked with fingerprints and puck smears.
This place makes the perfect kind of sense, at least to me.
Coach Graves runs us hard. Neutral-zone transitions, regroups, entries at speed, and then battle drills that turn your legs into jelly and your lungs into sandpaper.
Kai is sharp and clean—physical when he needs to be. He shuts lanes down before they open and makes grown men regret their decisions with a shoulder to the chest and a stick lift so smooth it’s almost disrespectful.
Weston chirps through it all like his vocal cords are sponsored by muscle fatigue. Opposite of Weston, Asher doesn’t talk much, but when he does, the whole rink leans in. Calm. Controlled. Steady. The kind of guy who probably sleeps eight hours and drinks water like it’s his religion.
Me? I’m a winger skating on muscle memory and caffeine, running on two gears: go and go harder. It works. For the most part.
Coach cycles us through another drill—quick touches, short passes, release in stride. The kind of thing that looks simple until you’re doing it at top speed with your heart trying to escape your ribcage.
I take a pass off my backhand, settle it, and rip it top corner, slipping past Asher.
The puck snaps twine, and for half a second, my brain goes blessedly quiet.
Then I look up and see Coach watching like he’s deciding whether I’m a weapon or a liability today.
No praise. Just a nod that says baseline is expected and excellence is rented by the hour.
By the time practice ends, my shirt is soaked, and my body feels like it got run over by a Zamboni. In the locker room, we strip out of our gear and head for the showers. Right as I’m toweling off my hair, Kai stands, completely dressed and ready to go.
“Barbecue at two,” he says. “At our place.” The room groans in unison because free food is the only thing hockey players respect more than sleep.
Weston sits up instantly. “Your place?”
Kai nods.
Weston’s eyes go feral. “Say less.”
Asher’s expression stays neutral. “Who’s cooking?”
Kai’s eyes flick to me, a smirk taking over his face. “Bennett.”
I point at my chest. “Why am I suddenly the team chef?”
“Because you’re a better cook than all of us combined,” Kai says. “And you’re less likely to burn the apartment down than Weston. Plus, you’re way more qualified.”
“That’s not a qualification.”
“If you ask the ladies, I think they may disagree,” Weston adds, wagging his eyebrows. “Don’t worry, Cap. I’ll help.”
Kai’s stare goes flat. “Don’t call me that when you’re about to do something dumb.”
Weston salutes. “Yes, sir.”
Asher slings his bag over his shoulder. “Try not to poison anyone.”
“No promises,” Weston calls.
Asher flips him off without looking and walks out toward the weight room like he’s above all of us—which, honestly, he might be.
The weight room is its own brand of hell.
It smells like metal and ego and whatever pre-workout Weston is currently abusing.
Coach has us on a program that’s equal parts science and sadism, and even though the season has barely started, our bodies already feel like we’ve been hit by a bus. I bench while Kai spots—silent, steady.
“Eat something besides eggs,” I tell him between reps.
Kai’s face remains blank. “No.”
Weston appears behind us with wild eyes and a shaker bottle. “If I die today, tell my mother I loved her.”
Asher walks by, unimpressed. “Tell your mother you’re dramatic.”
Weston points at him. “Could you try being supportive for once?”
Asher doesn’t break stride. “No.”
Weston turns to me. “Bennett, are you okay? You look…extra twitchy.”
I flip him off and rack the bar.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Kai’s gaze flicks to me—brief, knowing.
Right. Built-in lie detector.
We’re back at the apartment by late morning after swinging by the grocery store. Weston is already parked at our counter like he lives here, rummaging through cupboards.
Kai scans the room like he’s setting a defensive scheme.
“Keep it chill,” he says, but it’s aimed at Weston more than me. “No crowding. No ‘where are you from’ interrogation. She’s obviously from the same place as me, and she’ll talk when she’s ready.”
Weston puts a hand to his chest. “Captain Mercer, I am the picture of chill.”
Kai’s stare says you are a liability in a human body.
I hide a smile as Weston heads for the patio and starts pulling ingredients out.
So much for my sous chef. My own phone buzzes on the counter like it’s possessed.
I don’t reach for it. Kai’s gaze drops anyway, then returns to my face.
The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s clocking my self-control for once in my life. Good for me.
A knock sounds at the door, and Kai moves immediately in that direction.
He opens the door, and the girl in the hallway is smaller than I expected, wearing an oversized sweater and holding herself like she’s trying not to take up any extra space.
Wide eyes look into the apartment, scanning, before her gaze lands on me.
For half a second, everything stills.
I’ve seen her in passing, but never this close.
She looks just like Kai in some ways, but in others, they couldn’t be more different.
Her dirty-blonde hair hangs in loose waves over one shoulder, the other side tucked behind her ear like she did it without thinking.
A tote bag is gripped in her hands like it contains an exit plan she can deploy at a moment’s notice.
Haunted hazel eyes that tell me she has a story she doesn’t offer up freely.
A sense of awareness zings through me the longer I hold her gaze. Like she’s reading me while I’m doing the same to her.
Kai’s hand settles lightly on her shoulder.
“Harlow,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it in the locker room. “Hey. You good?”
She nods once, finally looking back at him.
He steps aside to give her space to enter on her own terms, like he’s learned the difference between guarding and crowding.
She crosses the threshold. And it’s like a weird sense of peace walks in with her.
Like the room, loud, messy hockey-player chaos shifts around her without swallowing her whole.
She looks at me again, then away, then back—like she’s making a decision she doesn’t want to admit she’s making.
And I realize, abruptly, that off-limits is going to get tested way sooner than I thought.