Chapter 7 #2
“I’m not—” I start, then stop because I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I’m not scared of you. I’m not uncomfortable.
Well, I am a little, but not because he’s done anything wrong.
Because he’s an athlete, and my brain has a long memory.
Because he’s Kai’s teammate, and Kai’s rules sit on my shoulders like weights.
Because he’s been…normal. And normal is dangerous when you’re used to people being unpredictable.
And most importantly, because a small part of me doesn’t want him to leave.
“You’re fine,” I settle on, because my default is always fine.
Grayson’s eyes narrow just slightly, like he can hear the lie. But he doesn’t call it out. He just says, “Okay.” And then he does something that shouldn’t feel like respect, but it does. He steps back. Gives me space.
I push off again, skating a slow loop, trying to shake the tightness in my chest loose.
I focus on the sound of my blades. On the cold air.
On the way the ice takes my weight without judgment.
Halfway through the lap, I glance back toward the bench.
Grayson is sitting now, elbows on his knees, watching the ice like he’s considering stepping onto it but can’t quite commit.
He looks…tired. Not exhausted-tired. Restless-tired. The kind that lives in your bones.
I shouldn’t care.
I do anyway.
I complete another lap and then slow near the boards. Not too close. Just close enough that I don’t have to raise my voice.
“You’re not going to skate?” I ask.
Grayson looks up, startled, like he forgot I existed for a second. “Maybe.”
“That’s not a real answer,” I tell him.
His mouth twitches. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”
I hesitate, then nod toward the ice. “You could do a few laps.”
Grayson studies me. “You giving me permission?”
I blink. “It’s not my rink.”
He shrugs. “Feels like it is this morning. You’re great out there.”
The words land weirdly in my chest. No one has seen me skate in years, but hearing a compliment is something I wasn’t mentally prepared for. I don’t know what to do with that, so I do what I always do when sincerity corners me.
I take the direct route, with no filter or fluff.
“You should skate,” I say. “Or don’t. But sitting there staring at the ice like it personally wronged you is a bit dramatic.”
Grayson laughs—quick, real, and surprised. “Dramatic, huh?”
“Yes,” I confirm. “It’s giving tortured artist.”
His eyes flick over me like he’s deciding if I’m joking.
I hold his gaze, because if I look away first, it feels like losing.
“Fine,” he says finally, standing. “I’ll skate.”
He pulls hockey skates from his bag and laces them with practiced speed. His movements are easy, efficient. Like his hands have done this a thousand times. Because they have. He steps onto the ice without hesitation, gliding out like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Of course it is.
He starts slow—shoulders loose, testing his edges, stopping cleanly, pivoting like his body was designed for it. Watching him skate is different than watching him at the barbecue.
At the barbecue he was a person in a room. Here, he looks like he belongs to the ice.
I push off and return to my routine, telling myself to focus. I do footwork while he does laps, and somehow the rhythm settles into something that feels…balanced. Two people moving in the same space without colliding, without forcing the other to adjust. It’s oddly calming.
After a few minutes, Grayson slows near the boards again.
“You’re good,” he says, like it slips out before he can stop it.
I stiffen. Compliments make my skin itch.
“I know,” I say automatically. Then immediately regret it because it sounds arrogant, and I don’t want him to think I’m arrogant. I just…don’t know how to accept praise without feeling like I owe something back.
Grayson’s mouth quirks. “It’s okay to be confident. I respect it.”
I exhale, annoyed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m—” I wave a hand vaguely. “Full of myself.”
Grayson studies me for a beat, then shrugs. “You don’t seem full of yourself.”
My throat tightens. Because what I do seem like is something I work very hard to keep hidden. And I don’t know what it means that he can see around my defenses so easily.
I turn away, skating another lap to burn off the weirdness. When I come back, Grayson is still there, leaning on the boards, breathing hard like he pushed himself just enough to feel alive.
He glances up at the wall clock. “You come here a lot?”
I hesitate.
Questions feel dangerous.
Answers feel permanent.
“Sometimes,” I say.
Grayson nods like he’ll take what I give and not ask for more. “It’s a good place for it.”
“For what?”
He looks at me, expression unreadable. Then, softer, “For quiet.”
My chest tightens again.
Because yes.
Because quiet is the only thing that makes my brain stop trying to eat me alive.
I nod once.
Grayson’s gaze flicks to my face. “You okay?”
There it is. The question everyone asks, like it has an easy answer. The question that never feels simple.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Grayson’s eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn’t buy it. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he says, “If you’re not, you don’t have to tell me.”
The words land like permission. I don’t know what to do with permission. So I default to sarcasm, because sarcasm is armor.
“Wow,” I say. “You’re dangerously emotionally intelligent for a hockey player.”
Grayson snorts. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
The rink door opens again at the far end—someone in a jacket, a staff member maybe. The sound echoes. My body reacts instantly, tightening, bracing for the environment to shift. Grayson notices, but he doesn’t comment. He just watches the door, then looks back at me.
“You want me to leave?” he asks, low.
I blink. “No.”
It comes out too fast. Too honest.
Grayson’s mouth twitches like he caught it.
“Okay,” he says simply. “I won’t.”
I skate another ten minutes, finishing my routine, letting the ice drain some of the static out of my chest. When my legs start to burn and my lungs feel clear, I coast to the bench and step off.
My hands shake a little as I pull my skate guards on.
Not from fear. From cold and exertion and the fact that my body is finally releasing tension it’s been holding for too long.
Grayson sits two spots away, unlacing his skates.
For a moment, it feels…normal. Like we’re just two people who ended up in the same place, doing what we needed to do to survive the day. Not a hockey star and a teammate’s sister with a complicated history.
He finishes and glances at me. “See you around?”
The question is casual, but there’s something careful about it. Like he’s offering connection without demanding it.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
His mouth quirks. “Cool.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and heads toward the door.
At the threshold, he pauses and looks back. “Nice skating, Mercer.”
Mercer.
Not “Kai’s sister.”
Just Mercer.
Like I belong to myself and not to my past.
I swallow. “Thanks.”
He nods once, giving me a small smile, and leaves, the door closing behind him.
The rink feels a little bigger without him in it. A little quieter. A little emptier. Which is ridiculous, because that’s exactly what I came here for.
I pack up my skates and walk back out into the October morning, breathing the cool morning air like it’s medicine.
My phone buzzes inside my tote.
A text from Kai.
Kai: u alive?
I stare at it, thumb hovering.
I could tell him I went to the rink. I could tell him I saw Grayson there.
I could, but I don’t.
I type back the safest truth.
Harlow: Yes. Headed back to my dorm.
A beat.
Kai: proud of you for getting out. want me to bring you breakfast later?
My stomach tightens anyway, because food is complicated, but this version feels like an offer, not a demand.
I inhale slowly.
Harlow: Maybe. I’ll let you know.
A pause.
Kai: ok. text if you need anything.
I shove my phone back into my tote and keep walking toward the rest of my day, still wondering why someone who is basically a stranger seems to make me feel calmer than even being on the ice can.