Chapter 11 Grayson
GRAYSON
Friday morning practice is sponsored by spite.
Not my spite.
Coach Graves’.
Because apparently the man woke up today and chose violence.
We’re twenty minutes in, and my lungs already feel like they’re filing a complaint.
Weston is chirping through drills, like his vocal cords are indestructible; Asher is calm in that infuriating way goalies always are; and Kai is doing his usual I will simply erase you from existence thing on the center.
Meanwhile, my brain is half on the ice and half somewhere else—
Stuck on a plain bagel.
Which is not a thought I ever expected to have.
The thing is, I didn’t mean for yesterday to be…anything. I saw Harlow freeze in the dining hall like the buffet line had personally threatened her, and my body did the same thing it always does when something looks off:
It reacted.
I didn’t think.
I just offered her an option that didn’t require her to explain herself.
Bagel. Low drama. No pressure.
She took it.
Then she actually ate it.
Not because I watched—because I didn’t. I deliberately didn’t. But I saw enough to know it wasn’t easy. And now I can’t stop thinking about the way her shoulders dropped after the first bite, like she’d been holding her breath all day.
It shouldn’t matter to me.
It does anyway.
“BENNETT!”
Coach’s voice snaps across the rink.
I blink, refocus, and push harder through the neutral zone like I didn’t just mentally time-travel.
Coach Graves skates along the boards, whistle bouncing against his chest. He’s in one of those moods where everything is “simple” and “obvious,” and if we aren’t executing perfectly, it’s because we’re personally insulting him.
“Tape-to-tape!” he barks. “Move your damn feet!”
I take a pass from Weston, settle it, dish it back through the middle. Shoulder check. Pivot. Drive the blue line. Drop it to the trailer.
Asher is waiting in the net.
Quick release. Net snaps.
Coach doesn’t praise. He nods once, like we hit baseline and anything less is shame.
“Again!”
We run it until my legs burn and my mind finally goes quiet. For a few minutes, hockey does what it always does for me: drags me into the present and forces my thoughts to stay here.
Practice ends with conditioning that makes me question every life choice I’ve ever made. When the whistle finally blows for good, the locker room explodes into noise—music, laughter, guys chirping like they didn’t just suffer.
Asher peels off his glove and blocker, unbothered. “What’s the new life plan today, Weston?”
“You’ll never see me again.” Weston points at him. “I’m starting a new life. I’m going to become a monk.”
Kai sits across from us, unlacing his skates with calm efficiency. “You’d last three minutes.”
Weston clutches his heart. “You don’t support my dreams.”
Kai doesn’t even look up. “Your dreams are annoying.”
Weston turns to me. “Bennett, back me up.”
I pull my shirt over my head and wipe sweat from my forehead. “No.”
Weston looks betrayed. “The forum girl has changed you.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Stop talking.”
Kai’s gaze flicks to Weston. “Cooper.”
Weston holds up his hands. “I’m not saying her name. I don’t know her name. I’m being respectful.”
Asher’s gaze flicks to me briefly—assessing—then back to his gear. “You coming to film at four?”
I blink. “Yeah.”
Weston groans. “Hale, why do you always remember responsibilities?”
Asher’s mouth twitches. “Someone has to.”
Weston’s eyes brighten. “Also, some of us are going skating later.”
Kai’s head snaps up. “Who is ‘some of us’?”
Weston grins like he’s proud. “I invited Harlow. Normal friendly invitation, and she said yes.”
Kai’s stare is a warning. “Don’t push her.”
Weston’s grin fades a notch. He nods once. “I won’t.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Kai’s gaze lands on me, sharp like he’s doing math.
“You have class?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
Kai nods once, like that answers something in his head. We scatter—classes, meetings, film. The day turns into controlled chaos. But the second I step into the hallway, my phone buzzes.
Not the team chat.
Forum.
The little notification lights up like a flare.
LittleTooMuch — message received.
My chest does that stupid loosen-and-tighten thing.
I don’t check it yet.
I’m not desperate.
I am also, apparently, a liar.
By the time I get back to the apartment, Kai is already there on the couch with his laptop open and his jaw set like he’s trying to murder a spreadsheet.
He looks up when I walk in. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, dropping my bag.
Kai’s gaze flicks over me like he’s scanning for something. “You see Harlow today?”
I pause. “No.”
Kai’s shoulders loosen by half an inch. “Good.”
I frown. “Good?”
Kai’s jaw ticks. “She’s been overstimulated. The fewer interactions she has to manage today, the better.”
The way he says it—careful, controlled—tells me he’s learned how to talk around her struggles without naming them.
I nod slowly. “So…did you get invited to skating?”
“She told me about it earlier,” Kai says, and it’s the smallest hint of relief I’ve ever heard in his voice. “She asked if I’d come.”
Something shifts in my chest—warmth at the fact that she asked. That she communicated instead of disappearing into her head.
Kai stands abruptly. “So yeah, I’m going.”
I raise a brow. “To hover.”
Kai glares. “To support.”
“That’s hovering with better branding,” I say.
Kai points at me like I’m the problem. “Don’t be weird.”
“I’m never weird.”
Kai narrows his eyes: liar.
He grabs his keys and heads for the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob.
“She likes you, you know,” he says, like it’s an accusation.
I choke on nothing and have to take a second to clear my throat before replying. “What?”
Kai turns, eyes sharp. “She said you were…less intense.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “That’s not—”
Kai’s mouth twitches. “It’s a compliment.”
“It’s also a weird thing to say,” I mutter.
Kai’s eyes narrow, calculating. “Just don’t mess with her head.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m not.”
Kai holds my gaze for a long moment like he’s deciding if he believes me.
Then he nods once. “Good.”
And leaves.
The apartment goes quiet.
Which means my brain gets loud again.
I kick off my shoes, drop onto the couch, and finally open the forum message.
It isn’t even nighttime yet, but her messages come early sometimes. The app is like that—half-open door, dim light left on.
Her message sits there, glowing.
LittleTooMuch: Today was hard again, but we survived.
I feel proud of myself for building such a strong sense of trust with this girl. She trusted me yesterday, and she’s trusting me again now in telling me hard things about her day.
My thumbs hover, and I type slowly, taking my time so I don’t seem overly desperate to keep talking to her.
NumberEleven: that’s a win.
NumberEleven: a real one.
NumberEleven: i’m proud of you.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
LittleTooMuch: Don’t make it a thing.
I snort softly.
NumberEleven: i’m not.
NumberEleven: i’m just saying it.
Dots again.
LittleTooMuch: Ok.
LittleTooMuch: I’ll take it.
I feel relief for a second, but it’s short-lived when her next message comes through.
LittleTooMuch: Choices are still the hardest part. I think it would be easier if I just had one thing sitting out for me and didn’t have to choose.
I rub my thumb over the edge of my phone and type something steady.
NumberEleven: then fewer choices is a good strategy.
NumberEleven: one safe thing. low drama. repeat.
A pause.
Then:
LittleTooMuch: Low drama.
LittleTooMuch: You sound like you’re giving me a pep talk.
I blink, then laugh.
NumberEleven: i would never.
NumberEleven: i’m a poet.
LittleTooMuch: Liar.
NumberEleven: ok fine. menace with a decent vocabulary.
Her next message comes slower.
LittleTooMuch: I’ve never told anyone outside of my family and therapist about this.
LittleTooMuch: So…thanks for not being weird.
My throat tightens.
I stare at the screen for a long moment.
Then I type the truth.
NumberEleven: thank you for trusting me.
NumberEleven: and i’m not going to be weird. promise.
A pause.
Then:
LittleTooMuch: Promises are scary.
My chest aches.
Don’t I know it.
Some promises don’t last, especially when the one that makes them is no longer here. They remain tied to memories and moments your brain can’t forget. Words spoken between brothers, never considering the possibility that each one wouldn’t be fulfilled.
Owen was the best brother I could’ve ever asked for. Instead of thinking I was annoying for wanting to follow him into hockey, he embraced it fully, making me a promise when I was only eight years old that he’d be at as many of my games and events as he could.
He was on his way to my game that night, having just finished up practice.
He and two of his teammates, whoever wanted to join him, really, would always make it a point to show up for any game of mine they could.
Promised to be there, actually. He was my biggest supporter, knowing exactly what it meant to me to have him watching. The big brother I looked up to.
One second, I was skating on the ice finishing up a normal round of warm-ups with my team before our game.
The next, my entire life was turned upside down.
The weather wasn’t great that night, but a grown man decided his need to drink and drive outweighed the risks of doing so.
He hit my brother’s car after running a red light five minutes from the arena where I was playing.
I’ve never forgiven myself for it, even if the blame and guilt aren’t truly mine to carry. I didn’t just lose my brother that night. It felt like I lost everyone.
My parents never came out and said they held me at fault for what happened, but our relationship has never recovered.
Outside of texts on my birthday and sometimes around the holidays, I really don’t hear from them.
I’ve spent the last five years living in the shadow of a loss I never asked for.
Sometimes grief brings people together, while other times it tears them apart.
Maybe someday things will change, but I don’t see that happening any time soon.
I’ve learned to be okay with being alone. With Owen’s birthday getting closer, it’s harder, though. November 21 sits on the horizon like a storm cloud, and my ribs already feel like they know it.
The forum has been a place where I don’t have to be alone. Ever since I started talking to LittleTooMuch, she’s started stealing space in my chest that grief has been occupying for years. And that’s…dangerous. Not because she’s unsafe, but because I might start needing her.
I swallow hard and type carefully.
NumberEleven: then we go slow.
NumberEleven: no big promises.
NumberEleven: just…tonight.
Three dots appear.
LittleTooMuch: Ok.
LittleTooMuch: Tonight I can do.
Relief hits my lungs.
NumberEleven: good.
NumberEleven: tell me one thing that didn’t suck today.
A pause.
LittleTooMuch: Someone invited me to go do something tonight, which at the time sounded fun, then regret creeped in.
LittleTooMuch: But I didn’t hate it once I was there.
Coincidence. Has to be. Most people will be invited to plans on a Friday night.
NumberEleven: that’s good.
NumberEleven: keep that person around.
Dots.
LittleTooMuch: Maybe. He’s quieter than most, but not in an awkward way. He just lets me breathe and hold whatever space I need to.
My eyes widen as I stare at my screen, and now I’m the one trying to be Spencer Reid and build a profile.
I shut it down.
Don’t ruin this with paranoia.
NumberEleven: quiet can be safe.
NumberEleven: you deserve safe.
A pause.
Then her reply lands soft.
LittleTooMuch: You say things like that, and it makes me want to believe you.
Before I can overthink it, I type:
NumberEleven: believe me tonight.
NumberEleven: we’ll worry about tomorrow later.
Dots.
LittleTooMuch: Ok.
LittleTooMuch: Goodnight, poet.
I snort quietly.
NumberEleven: goodnight.
I set my phone down, and while my brain is still loud, it isn’t screaming.
Not yet.
And for the first time in a long time, the thought of tomorrow doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like something I might actually want to get to. Even if I have no idea what I’m walking toward.