Chapter 37
GRAYSON
Iwake up thinking about two things I shouldn’t.
The first is tomorrow’s game.
The second is the way Harlow looked at me last night when she laughed—quick, reluctant, like it surprised her that her body still remembers how to laugh and live freely. One of those things is allowed to take up space in my head. The other one is already living there like it pays rent.
I try to drown it in routine. Coffee. Stretch. Bag packed the exact same way it’s been packed since I was fifteen and convinced control could keep tragedy from finding me. The campus is gray-blue when I cut across it, air cold enough to sting my lungs clean.
When I get to the rink, Kai runs the morning skate like he runs everything: quiet authority, no wasted movement. He’s the captain for a reason. Center. Anchor. The guy who doesn’t chirp unless he has to and still somehow manages to make the whole bench sit up straighter when he does.
Weston is loud enough for three people.
“Tomorrow,” he says, lacing his skates like he’s about to propose to the ice. “We end them. We crush them. We—”
“As an adult,” I tell him, “you’re supposed to have an inside voice.”
Weston squints at me. “Do you have an inside voice?”
“Less today than I’d like,” I mutter.
He grins like he thinks that’s a confession. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
We get on the ice, and it’s simple for ten minutes.
Not easy—simple. Flow drills. Touch passes.
Small-area stuff that keeps your hands honest. Kai runs a set where the centers rotate low, wingers swing high, quick give-and-go off the wall, and every time the puck hits my blade, my body remembers what it’s good at.
Then my brain ruins it.
With Harlow.
With the fact that tomorrow, she’s going to be in the stands with a thousand people and bright lights and noise.
The kind of energy that can either feel like a high or like a trap, depending on what your nervous system decides to do with it.
And she’s doing it anyway. For Kai, sure.
But also—this is the part my chest tightens around—maybe for me.
My stick fumbles a pass, and Coach’s whistle goes sharp.
“BENNETT,” he barks. “You planning to show up, or should I scratch you and let Cooper’s ego play right wing tomorrow?”
Weston makes a wounded noise. “Coach.”
Coach doesn’t look at him. “Skate.”
I shake it off. Clean the next rep. Then the next. I make myself stay in my body. I tell myself I can deal with feelings when the game is over.
The problem is, feelings don’t care about my schedule.
Harlow texts me when I’m halfway back to the apartment.
Harlow: Are you home?
My thumb hovers. I’m always around now. At this point, if she asked me to stand in the middle of traffic with a blindfold on, I’d probably say yes as long as she promised she was okay.
Grayson: yeah. you coming over?
A laugh scrapes out of my throat, soft enough that it doesn’t count as joy.
Harlow: Be there in five
I’m still grinning like an idiot when I shove my phone back into my pocket and take the stairs two at a time. I shouldn’t be this excited about a knock at the door.
But I am.
She shows up five minutes later with her tote bag and that careful posture she gets when she’s stepping into someone else’s space.
Not fear, exactly. More an overabundance of caution.
She’s wearing a hoodie and leggings, hair down, cheeks pink from the cool air.
Her eyes land on me and don’t dart away the way they used to.
It hits me like a punch every time.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey,” she answers, softer.
I step back to let her in. I close the door behind her, and the apartment feels too small immediately. She fills the space now. In my life. In my lungs.
She drops her tote by the couch and looks around like she’s counting the exits out of habit. Then she spots the TV remote on the armrest and the throw blanket Weston left here last time he “stopped by for one second” and stayed for two hours.
Her mouth twitches.
“You live like a boy,” she says.
I blink, placing my hands over my heart, pretending to be wounded. “This is hurtful.”
“It’s an observation,” she replies, deadpan.
I point at her. “That’s just a mean word for it.”
Her eyes flick up, amused. “It’s accurate.”
God. I want to bottle that look and keep it in my pocket for the days that hurt. I clear my throat, trying to act like a person who is not down bad. “You okay?”
She shrugs, but it’s not a dodge. More like she’s weighing the truth.
“I…think so,” she says. “Tomorrow’s just…”
She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to. I feel it anyway. Tomorrow is a room full of sound with too many eyes. Tomorrow is a thing she wants to do and also a thing that could bite.
I keep my voice steady. “You don’t have to come.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, sharp. “Yes, I do.”
I lift my brows. “Okay, baby.”
She rolls her eyes, but her mouth softens. “I’m going.”
I nod once. “Then you’re going. And if you leave early, you still went.”
Harlow’s shoulders drop a fraction, like her nervous system just got approval. I hate how much I want to give her that feeling. Even more so the relief that comes with it. She walks a few steps into the living room and stops, arms folding over her stomach like she’s holding herself together.
“I don’t want you to be disappointed if I can’t,” she says quietly.
The words hit me in the ribs because she’s always trying to manage everyone else’s feelings before she even touches her own.
“I won’t,” I say, immediately.
Her eyes narrow. “You will.”
I exhale. “Okay. Fine. I might. I’m human, but I’m not going to put that on you.”
She stares at me like she’s trying to decide if that’s real.
Then, softer, “I really want to be there to support you.”
“Yeah?” I ask evenly, like I’m not hanging on every word she gives me.
Harlow nods. “Yeah. I want to see you play.”
“Careful, baby. I’m starting to think you’re obsessed with me.”
She laughs. “Well, you’re not fully wrong there. Also, can I have your jersey?”
I blink, surprised by the question. “What?”
Harlow’s cheeks immediately turn red. “For the game.”
My brain stutters. I know what she’s asking, and I also don’t know how to hold it without breaking something.
My number. My name on her back.
Her choosing it.
I feel it everywhere. In my throat. In my stomach. In the space in my chest where something fragile still lives.
“You want—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “You want my jersey?”
Harlow lifts one shoulder like she’s trying to make it lighter. It fails. “Yes.”
“And you’re asking,” I say, because it matters that the choice is hers.
She nods once, eyes steady. “I’m asking.”
I stare at her for a second too long. She shifts, like she’s about to backpedal. “Never mind,” she starts, too quick—
“No,” I cut in gently. “Don’t do that.”
Her mouth tightens. “Do what?”
“Take it back because you’re scared you’ll want it too much,” I say quietly.
Harlow goes still. It’s true. She always feels like her wants are dangerous.
I take a slow breath, then step closer—just enough to shrink the space, not enough to trap.
“If you wear my jersey tomorrow,” I say, voice low, “I’m going to think about it for the rest of my life.”
Her throat bobs.
“That’s dramatic,” she whispers.
“It’s honest,” I correct.
Harlow’s eyes glisten—not tears, just that brightness she gets when her body is trying to feel something and not panic about it at the same time.
“I just…” she starts, then stops.
I wait.
She exhales. “I want to feel like I’m choosing something.”
Good God I love this girl.
I nod once. “Okay.”
Then I add, because I’m an idiot and I can’t not say it, “You’re going to look absolutely gorgeous in it.”
Harlow’s mouth twitches. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“The way you say things like that,” she murmurs. “Like it’s…normal.”
“It is normal,” I say, voice steady. “You’re beautiful. Even if you don’t always think so.”
Her eyes snap to mine. Heat rushes up her neck.
Mine too.
I don’t push. I don’t step closer. I just hold her gaze and let the truth sit there between us like a match.
Finally, she clears her throat. “So, is that a yes?”
I blink like I forgot how to breathe.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s a yes.”
Harlow’s shoulders loosen, relief and nerves tangled together. Then she gives me a smile that guts me.
Not wide. Not perfect.
Just real.
“I’ll give it back,” she says quickly. “I’ll wash it. I won’t—”
“Harlow.” I stop her softly. “You don’t have to earn it.”
Her mouth closes. Her eyes go shiny again. She looks away like she hates it. Then she looks back, voice smaller. “Okay.”
I nod like I’m steady, even though my insides are doing somersaults.
“Come here,” I say before I can overthink it.
Her brows lift. “Why?”
“Because you asked me for my jersey like it didn’t just ruin my ability to function,” I say, deadpan. “And I need to recalibrate.”
That earns me a soft huff of a laugh. She steps toward me slowly, like she’s still learning how to be bold in a body that’s used to bracing. I meet her halfway. Not with a grab. With a hand at her waist—soft, asking—and my other hand brushing her cheek. Her breath catches.
Always.
I lean down and press my mouth to hers. Not a hungry kiss.
Not yet. A slow one. Warm and steady. The kind that says yes without making it a demand.
Harlow makes a quiet sound that goes straight through me.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her eyes are wide, dark, and so focused on me that it makes my chest hurt.
“Tomorrow,” I murmur.
She swallows. “Tomorrow.”
I brush my thumb along her cheekbone. “If it’s too much—”
“I’ll leave,” she finishes, voice steady now. “Without apologizing.”
My mouth curves. “Good.”
She stares at me for a second like she’s about to say something brave.
Then she does.
“And you won’t be mad if that happens?”
I shake my head. “I could never be mad if you’re doing something to protect yourself.”
She nods, letting out a long exhale. “Okay, Gray.”
I fucking love it when she calls me that.
“Yeah?” I manage, voice rougher than I intended.
Harlow’s mouth twitches, letting me know that she noticed too. “Go get your jersey.”
I blink, trying to break myself out of whatever trance this woman has me in. “Bossy.”
“Accurate,” she says.
I laugh—real, startled—then turn toward my room, like my legs remember how to work again.
But halfway there, I stop because I need to say one thing to myself before I forget how to be a person.
I’m standing in my hallway, heart pounding like I just scored in overtime.
And the thought lands clean and terrifying.
I’m in love with her.
Not out loud. Not yet. But it settles in my chest like something that’s been looking for a home.
I grab my jersey anyway. Tomorrow, she’s going to wear my number.
And I might not survive it.
But I’m going to try.