Chapter 13 Grayson
GRAYSON
There’s a specific kind of hell reserved for a senior hockey player at a party he doesn’t want to attend, especially when it’s getting closer to Halloween than not.
It’s not the music—though it’s loud enough to rattle the fillings out of your teeth. It’s not even the fact that Weston has been yelling “PCU BABYYYY” every six minutes.
It’s the in-between.
The part where you’re sober enough to register every conversation you don’t care about, but too tired to be charming about it.
It’s been an extra-long week, and I stand in the kitchen with a red cup I’m barely sipping, because I like my athletic performance and my internal organs, and watch Weston fist-bump a guy I’m ninety percent sure is named Mason or Hudson or something aggressively football.
Asher is in the corner, calm and unbothered, talking to one of the athletic trainers like he’s collecting life points for being responsible.
Kai isn’t here, which is the entire reason I’m here.
Kai doesn’t skip a party for fun. He skips a party because he’s with Harlow. Or because he’s worrying about Harlow. Or because he’s pacing around our apartment and pretending he isn’t worrying about Harlow.
He told me he wasn’t coming tonight because she’d had a “long week.” Then he said it like that was the end of the discussion.
No details. No explanation. Just a hard line in the sand, like if he didn’t name it, it couldn’t exist. I didn’t argue.
I’ve learned arguing with Kai about Harlow is like skating into traffic on purpose.
Weston, of course, heard Kai isn’t going and decided it meant Bennett has to go.
“You’re coming,” he’d said, already grabbing his keys. “Because I refuse to be the only one making regrettable choices tonight.”
I told him I was staying in. He told me I was “emotionally unavailable and therefore a coward.” Then he texted Asher, and somehow I ended up here like a man who lost a fight he didn’t realize he was in.
So now I’m planted in the kitchen, scanning the room like I’m scouting for threats, and trying not to feel like I’m wasting time I should be using trying to sleep.
Or study.
Or literally anything besides standing in a football house where someone just screamed “BEER PONG!” like it’s an emergency procedure.
Weston appears at my side, breathless and thrilled. “Bennett.”
“What?” I say, already tired.
He points across the room like he’s presenting a magic trick. “Lyla’s here.” I follow his finger. Lyla Harding is near the living room, talking to Carter Hayes with that polished ease she has—professional, calm, like the world doesn’t overwhelm her. She looks good. She looks like she belongs here.
She also looks like the exact kind of girl Weston thinks I should be “into,” because Weston knows all.
“She’s always here,” I mutter.
Weston’s grin turns wicked. “You gonna shoot your shot?”
“Absolutely not. I’m going to exist,” I say flatly. “As far away as possible.”
Been there, done that. Lyla is gorgeous, sure—who wouldn’t notice?—but she’s also very obviously with Carter. And I like my balls right where they are.
Weston presses a dramatic hand to his chest. “I’ve never met anyone more boring.”
Asher glides up beside us, expression neutral. “You’re both loud.”
Weston gasps. “I’m not loud.”
Asher’s eyes flick to him. “You just yelled ‘PCU BABYYYY’ in someone’s ear.”
Weston shrugs. “It was inspiring.”
Asher’s gaze shifts to me. “You okay?”
I nod, even though I know he can see right through my bullshit.
Asher doesn’t call me on it. He just gives one slow nod like he’s logging it. Then, quieter, “Kai good?”
My stomach tightens.
“As good as Kai gets,” I answer. “He said he was staying in to study, but I think he’s watching film again instead. Maybe hitting the weights, who knows.”
Asher’s mouth twitches faintly. “That’s not reassuring.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
Weston bumps my shoulder. “Okay, come on. We’re making laps.”
“Why,” I say, “would I do that?”
“Because it’s a party,” Weston says, like it’s obvious. “You have to look like you’re having fun.”
I glance around at the bodies and the noise and the mild chaos.
“Where?” I ask. “Where is the fun?”
Weston ignores the question and drags me toward the living room anyway. I let him, because fighting Weston is like fighting a wave. You can try, but you’ll still end up wet and annoyed.
We weave through people—Carter’s voice somewhere, an intramural argument, bass thumping in my chest like a second heartbeat—
And then I see her.
Harlow is near the hallway that leads to the backyard, half-hidden behind a tall guy in a flannel.
She’s wearing an oversized sweater, hair down in pretty waves, face angled away from the room like she’s trying to soften the noise by refusing to look at it.
She’s holding a cup, but she’s not drinking it.
Her shoulders are too high, nearly meeting her ears, her fingers holding a death grip on the rim.
She looks like she’s balancing on the edge of something.
I don’t know why it has me wanting to race over to her, as if I can save her from whatever inner spiral is headed her way. Because I’ve seen that posture before at the dining hall and rink, the way she holds herself like the world is always one wrong sound away from being too much.
And suddenly, I can’t focus on anything else.
Weston doesn’t notice because he doesn’t notice anything unless it’s yelling at him.
But I do. I notice how her eyes keep flicking toward exits.
How she flinches when someone laughs too loud.
How her jaw locks like she’s swallowing a feeling.
My body moves before my brain can argue with it. I angle toward her.
Weston grabs my sleeve. “Where are you going?”
I peel his fingers off. “Air.”
Weston’s eyes light up, full of mischief. “I wonder who you could possibly be going to get air with?”
“Cooper,” Asher says behind him, a calm warning.
Weston turns to him, pouting. “Why are you always on Bennett’s side?”
Asher’s gaze flicks past Weston, toward Harlow, then back. “Because he’s doing something useful.”
Weston stares for a second, then his face changes. “Oh yes, very useful. Our team captain’s younger sister just happened to show up, completely alone. No one talked her into coming or anything like that.”
I keep walking, and Weston keeps talking, but I don’t hear whatever else he has to say. Harlow doesn’t notice me at first, or maybe she does and pretends she doesn’t. Either way, I slow as I get closer, making sure she feels me coming and being careful not to crowd her more.
When I’m within a few feet, she looks up, her pretty eyes meeting mine. She exhales immediately, and I’m not even sure she notices that she does. Knowing that I have that effect on her sends a small shiver down my spine, and I like it. I like it a lot.
“Hi,” I say, low enough for her to hear but not for anyone else.
“Hi.” Her gaze flicks past me, to the room, then back. “You’re here.”
“I got roped in,” I say. “I’m filing a complaint later.”
The smallest twitch of her mouth, not a full smile, but progress. My chest does something stupid knowing I was the reason for it.
I clear my throat. “Where’s Kai?”
Her fingers tighten around her cup. “He mentioned studying, so probably doing that.”
Well, at least he kept the story the same.
I nod. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
I do my best to hide my grin that slips, knowing she’s lying. I give her an out, gesturing toward the hallway that leads outside. “I could really use some air. Come with me?”
Her eyes flick to the door like I hit a pressure release valve. She hesitates, calculating what it would mean to leave. Whether it would look rude. Whether it would start a conversation she doesn’t want. So I make it easier for her.
“I’m going outside,” I say casually, shrugging. “You can come if you want. Or you can stay and pretend this is fun. Up to you.”
Harlow exhales like she’s surrendering.
“Air,” she says.
I nod once and turn, walking at a pace that lets her follow without feeling like she has to run to keep up. We slip through the hallway and out the back door into cooler night air. The change is immediate. The bass muffles. The voices turn into background noise. The world widens.
Harlow’s shoulders drop a full inch, like gravity just got kinder. She moves to the railing and rests her hands on it, staring out at the yard where a few people are gathered around a fire pit. She doesn’t speak, and neither do I.
I stand a few feet away, leaning against the siding like I really did need some air, because I have a feeling she hates when things are about her.
The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable.
It’s the kind of quiet I’ve been needing all day, only I have a feeling the quiet wasn’t the thing I was actually craving.
Finally, Harlow speaks without looking at me.
“I hate parties.”
I snort softly. “Same.”
She glances at me, a suspicious grin playing on her pillowy lips. “You don’t seem like you hate parties.”
“That’s because,” I say, deadpan, “I’m an excellent actor.”
That earns me another mouth twitch, and here I am staring at my teammate’s little sister’s lips, thinking about how soft they might feel against mine. My chest tightens again. The stupid kind. The kind that feels a lot like wanting something I damn sure know I can’t have. I shove it down.
“Weston talked you into coming, huh?” I ask.
Harlow’s fingers tighten on the railing. “Yup.”
I nod. “Of course he did.”
“He meant well,” she says.
“They all mean well,” I reply, because it’s true.
Harlow’s shoulders rise in a quick, tense shrug. “Sometimes ‘meant well’ feels a lot like pressure.”
That lands under my ribs.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Pressure sucks.”
She finally looks at me, and something in her gaze sharpens like she’s evaluating whether I’m full of shit or being sincere. I don’t flinch. I just hold her gaze, because I want her to see that I’m the most honest version of myself whenever I’m around her.