Chapter 38
HARLOW
My room is still dark when I wake up, my body tense from head to toe, like it’s bracing for impact. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, but my nervous system doesn’t care about alarms.
Game day.
I lie there listening as the air hums quietly through the vent, trying to convince myself this is just another Tuesday. Coffee. Getting dressed. Maybe some laundry that I’ve been slacking on. Maybe a walk.
Anything but the image that keeps flashing behind my eyes like a warning sign.
Tyler Rushton. The arena lights. The sound of skates cutting clean lines on ice. My stomach drops the way it did when I was fifteen and learned that wanting someone could turn into a weapon.
I roll onto my side and press my face into my pillow, breathing in and out slowly.
In for four. Hold. Out for six.
My body doesn’t fully believe it, but it loosens—just enough.
My phone buzzes. A text. And my chest does that stupid tight-warm thing like my body recognizes him before my brain can decide if I’m allowed to be this happy.
Gray: you awake?
I don’t even pretend to hesitate.
Harlow: Unfortunately.
A pause.
Gray: same.
Gray: i’m already at the rink.
Gray: don’t let your brain bully you today.
I blink at the screen, because I’m not sure how he can say something so simple and have it feel like he just slid a hand under my ribs and held me steady.
Harlow: Are you nervous?
Three dots.
Gray: i’m good.
Gray: how about you? you nervous?
I stare at the question like it’s daring me to be honest.
Harlow: I’m…aware.
He replies immediately.
Gray: ok.
Gray: you don’t have to be brave the whole time.
Gray: just show up.
Gray: i’ll do the rest.
I swallow hard because a part of me wants to argue. Wants to say no, I have to do my part, I have to be fine, I have to not be a problem. But there’s another part of me—newer, quieter—that wants to accept help without turning it into shame.
Harlow: Ok.
His response is a single word.
Gray: good.
I stare at it until my eyes sting. Then I force myself out of bed before my brain can make a case for hiding.
By ten, I’ve done the things that usually convince me I’m functional.
Shower.
Hair.
A hoodie I’ve worn so many times it feels like armor.
I even eat half a bagel.
Not because I’m hungry. Because I know the difference between “my body needs fuel” and “my brain wants control,” and today I’m trying to be the kind of person who doesn’t let fear masquerade as discipline.
When my phone buzzes again, I nearly drop it.
Wren: I’m outside. Don’t make me text your brother.
Wren.
I know she’s been back for a couple weeks now, technically, but it still feels surreal that she’s in the same time zone again. In the same air. Close enough to show up at my door on a Tuesday like we’re sixteen and everything hasn’t changed.
I open the door, and she’s there like a burst of sunshine I didn’t order.
Her outfit of the day is an oversized T-shirt and faded jeans, completed with white sneakers.
She steps inside and takes one look at my face.
“Oh,” she says, voice immediately softer. “Okay. We’re doing nervous nervous.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Wren’s eyes narrow. “Harlow, I have known you since we were literal gremlins. Don’t lie to me on a day like today.”
My throat tightens, and I hate that I’m grateful. Because Wren doesn’t ask questions like traps. She asks like doors.
“I’m…okay,” I repeat, because it’s the only word that doesn’t feel like an invitation for my brain to spiral. Wren nods like she understands exactly what that means.
“Cool,” she says. “Then let’s get you ready.”
I snort.
She points at my bed. “Jersey. Now.”
My stomach flips again.
I’d put it away last night like it might combust if I stared at it too long. But when I pull it out, folded neat, Grayson’s number visible, my chest tightens so hard I have to breathe around it.
Because it’s still just fabric.
And yet—
It isn’t.
Wren whistles. “Girl, that boy is going to lose his damn mind when he sees you in his jersey.”
I glare at her. “Don’t make it weird.”
She beams. “Oh, baby, it’s already weird. It’s romance. Romance is weird.”
I pull the jersey on over my tank, and the second it settles on my shoulders, something in my body shifts. I wouldn’t say that the nerves are fully gone, but I do feel a bit more confident.
Wren’s eyes soften when she sees my face change.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Now that looks good on you.”
I swallow. “It’s huge.”
“It’s hockey,” she says, deadpan. “Everything is huge.”
I tug at the sleeves once, then stop, because if I keep adjusting it, I’ll start spiraling.
Wren grabs my wrist gently. “Hey.”
I look at her.
Her expression is steady in that way that makes me remember she’s not just sunshine. She’s steel under it.
“You don’t have to prove anything today,” she says. “Not to your brother. Not to Grayson. Not even to yourself.”
My throat tightens.
“I know,” I whisper.
Wren’s mouth twitches. “Also, if Tyler Rushton even breathes in your direction, I will need help burying the body.”
I tip my head back, laughing, but also knowing she’s only partly joking.
Wren points at me like she’s won. “There. That’s the face. We’re keeping that.”
Kai texts twice while we’re walking across campus.
Kai: u good?
Kai: text me when you’re inside.
I don’t respond immediately because if I do, it becomes a thing.
Wren reads my expression anyway.
“Kai being Kai?” she asks.
I nod.
Wren’s gaze goes distant for half a second, like she’s remembering her own history with my brother and deciding not to poke it today. Then she bumps my shoulder lightly. “Okay. We’re not letting Captain Control ruin your game day.”
“You’ve been back for five minutes, and you’re already making enemies,” I mutter.
Wren grins. “That’s my brand.”
The rink is loud before we even get inside. Not deafening yet. But alive. A low roar of people, music, the smell of popcorn and cold air mixing together until it feels like an entire world has been built just to hold a hockey game.
My chest tightens as soon as we step into the lobby.
Not panic.
Just that automatic body reaction, the one that says: too many eyes, too much noise, too much unknown. Wren sees it instantly. She doesn’t ask if I’m okay. She just steps a little closer—shoulder almost brushing mine—and it’s such a small thing it shouldn’t help. It helps anyway.
We find our seats—just one row up from the glass, near the corner where I can see the bench without feeling like I’m in the middle of everything.
I sit. Exhale.
The jersey hangs heavy on my shoulders like a secret.
Wren leans close. “Okay, so tell me the rules.”
I blink. “Hockey rules?”
“No,” she snorts. “Grayson rules. I know hockey from watching Kai for years.”
My face goes hot. Wren watches me with the kind of amusement that makes me want to shove her into the Zamboni door.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
Wren smiles sweetly. “No, you don’t. Also, you’re wearing his number. You are literally a walking declaration.”
I groan.
Then the arena lights shift. The music bumps. Warm-ups start. And my heart—traitor—finds him without my consent.
Grayson skates onto the ice, and the world narrows.
He’s in full gear, helmet on, cage catching the light. He moves like he belongs to the space in a way I will never understand. Like his body knows the ice is home, and everything else is just where he keeps his stuff.
He circles once, stick tapping the ice. Then his head lifts. And his gaze finds me.
It’s instant.
Not searching. Not scanning, but like he knew exactly where I’d be.
And when he sees the jersey—
His skating stutters. Not enough that anyone else would notice. Just a fraction. A micro-glitch in the smoothness that tells me his body felt it before his brain could play it cool.
My stomach flips hard. He does one more lap, then angles toward the tunnel.
Wren elbows me. “Oh. He’s coming.”
My pulse spikes.
“Wren—”
“Shh,” she whispers. “This is cinema.”
I barely have time to breathe before Grayson appears at the glass near our section, helmet off now, hair damp at the edges, cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion. He looks up at me and slips through the door, motioning me to come to him.
And the expression on his face is…everything.
Smiling so much that his dimple is on full display, and trying not to look at me like I’m the only thing in the building and failing miserably.
When I make it down to him, I pause as he takes in my outfit, admiring it.
“You wore it.”
My cheeks burn.
I lift my shoulders. “You told me I could.”
His mouth twitches. “I wanted you to. I’m glad you did.”
His gaze drifts over me like he’s memorizing. The jersey on my shoulders. My hands fidgeting in the sleeves. The way my breathing is anything but calm and steady.
Then he lifts his brows slightly, the smallest question.
You okay?
I nod, because I don’t trust my mouth.
Wren leans forward in her seat like she’s part of the relationship now.
“Hi, I’m still here, lovebirds,” she says brightly.
Grayson’s eyes flick to her, then back to me like he’s still making sure I’m real.
“Hi, Wren,” he says, polite, then adds, “Thank you for sitting with her.”
Wren blinks like she didn’t expect sincerity.
Then she smiles. “Yeah. Of course.”
Grayson’s gaze returns to me, and the air feels too charged for a public arena.
“You should be with your team,” I whisper. “You know, warming up.”
He tilts his head, eyes dark. “Yeah. I should be.”
But he doesn’t move.
I narrow my eyes. “Gray.”
His mouth quirks again, small, almost boyish. “Kiss me first?”
My entire body goes hot. Wren makes a noise that sounds like she’s choking on air.
“Are you serious?” I can’t help the giggle that sneaks out with my words.
Grayson’s eyes soften. “Don’t make me beg.”
While I’d love to see that later, there’s something in his face that says he’s not doing this to be cute. He’s doing it because he needs it, just as badly as I do. Like a grounding point. My heart slams against my ribs.
I glance at Wren, who is fully vibrating with joy.
“Kiss the man already,” she whispers.
My cheeks flush, then I lean up on my toes as Grayson meets me halfway, and I press my mouth to his.
It’s nothing extreme, just a quick press of my lips to his.
But the second it happens, my whole nervous system recalibrates.
His lips are warm from his breath inside the cold arena.
His mouth stills for half a beat like he’s savoring it, then he pulls back slowly, eyes fixed on mine.
His voice is barely a sound. “Thank you.”
My throat tightens. He looks at me for one more second like he’s trying to take me with him. Then he turns and skates away.
Wren grabs my arm.
“I’m going to die,” she swoons. “You guys are so cute; I literally cannot.”
I bury my face in my hands.
“I can’t believe I just did that in public,” I groan.
Wren grins. “Oh, it’ll get worse. Wait until you’re married.”
“Wren.”
She laughs, then sobers a little, eyes cutting toward the tunnel on the far end.
“Okay,” she says, quieter. “Now comes the part where we breathe.”
My stomach drops because I know what she means.
The opposing team takes the ice. Different jerseys. Different energy. Their warm-up looks more aggressive. More showy. More like they want to be seen. My body recognizes the threat before my brain even fully catches up.
Then I see him.
Tyler Rushton.
He glides out like the ice belongs to him. Like the world belongs to him. He laughs at something one of his teammates says, head tipped back, smile easy—golden boy charade perfected. And my chest constricts so fast it feels like someone wrapped a wire around my ribs and yanked.
My palms go cold at the same time my mouth goes dry.
I stare at him, and suddenly I’m fifteen again, standing in a hallway, stomach hollow, trying to make myself smaller because I learned that being seen meant being judged.
My vision sharpens weirdly at the edges. My brain does inventory like it’s trying to survive.
Exits.
Bathrooms.
Wren beside me.
The aisle behind us.
My fingers curl in the hem of Grayson’s jersey, like fabric can hold me together.
Wren’s voice comes soft. “Hey.”
I blink hard, forced back into my body.
Wren’s eyes are on my face, steady.
“You with me?” she asks.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“You’re not alone,” she says. “He doesn’t get to do that to you again.”
My throat tightens.
“He’s just…a person,” I whisper, like saying it will make it true.
Wren’s mouth twists. “He’s a person with an incredibly punchable vibe, and we know I love a good follow-the-vibe moment.”
I snort—a broken laugh that still counts.
Then the lights dim, the music surges, the announcer’s voice booms through the arena, introducing players like they’re gods. My heart jumps when Grayson’s name is called. When Kai’s is.
The crowd roars.
I clap because my hands need something to do.
Kai skates out, the captain’s C sharp on his chest. He looks focused, controlled—until he glances toward the other team.
Toward Tyler.
And I see it.
The flicker. The shift in his posture, almost invisible, like a protective instinct sharpening into an actual blade.
Grayson lines up near the boards, wing position, stick tapping. He looks toward the stands, and his gaze meets mine. He sends me a wink and takes his focus back to the game about to start.
The puck drops.
And the game begins.