Chapter 40 Grayson #2
Then he leans in and presses his forehead to hers for half a second—something private. And when he pulls back, he looks slightly broken. Like a man who is in the middle of learning that loving someone means letting them choose danger sometimes.
He straightens. Captain back on.
He glances at me.
“If you need anything,” he says quietly
I nod once. “Got it.”
Kai takes a breath.
Then he steps back, eyes flicking to Wren—pain flashing, buried fast. He bolts. Just…turns and walks away down the hallway like if he stays one second longer, he’ll lose control of his face.
Wren watches him go with an expression that is too complicated to belong in a hallway. Then she looks back at Harlow and forces her voice light.
“Well,” she says. “That went…fantastic.”
Harlow exhales a shaky laugh that sounds like it didn’t know it could exist tonight.
Weston perks up like he senses a comedic opening. “I’d like to nominate that interaction for the Most Awkward Award.”
Wren glares at him, but Harlow’s gaze stays on me.
And then she says softly, “Can you—”
She doesn’t finish. But her eyes drop to my face again.
I nod immediately.
“Yeah,” I say. “We can go.”
Wren looks between us, reads the room, and lifts her hands in surrender.
“I’m going to take myself out of this,” she says, backing away. “Harlow, text me when you’re in. Also, Weston, don’t follow me.”
Weston puts two fingers to his forehead like a salute. “No promises.”
Wren points at him. “I’m serious.”
Weston’s grin turns feral. “I know.”
Wren walks away, but Weston stays put. He acts like he’s counting in his head, and he must be, because less than a minute later, he sends me a wink and follows in the exact direction Wren just went.
I shake my head, and Harlow watches them go, then looks back at me like she’s remembering what just happened.
Her voice drops. “Are you okay?”
My cheek throbs again like it wants to answer for me.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Harlow’s eyes narrow slightly.
I correct myself. “I’m okay.”
That’s the honest version.
Harlow nods once, like she respects the difference.
“Come on,” she says quietly.
And I follow her out.
The walk back to her dorm is quieter than it should be after a game.
The campus is still buzzing—students yelling, cars honking, someone chanting the score like it’s a religious experience.
But around Harlow, the noise softens. Or maybe my brain just shifts into a different mode when she’s beside me.
Harlow keeps her hands tucked into the sleeves of my jersey, shoulders hunched slightly like she’s bracing against the cold. Or maybe against the night.
I keep my hands in my pockets because I don’t trust them to behave. I want to touch her in a way that doesn’t belong on a sidewalk in public. I want to pull her against me and take her home and shut the world out and tell her she doesn’t ever have to hear words like that again.
But I don’t.
I keep pace. I stay steady. That’s what she needs.
At her dorm entrance, she stops and looks up at me.
The lobby light spills onto her face, catching her eyes, and something in my chest twists.
“Come up,” she says.
It isn’t a question. It’s a decision.
“Are you sure?” I ask anyway, because I’m not stupid.
Harlow’s mouth twitches, sharp but tired. “Yes. I want to put ice on your face, Gray. Not propose.”
My chest loosens on a quiet huff of laughter. “Okay.”
We go inside. Up the stairs. The hallway smells like laundry detergent and cheap candles and college. Harlow unlocks her door and steps in first, flipping on a small lamp instead of the overhead. Soft light. Not interrogation light. She remembers.
She grabs an ice pack from her mini fridge before disappearing into her tiny bathroom, coming back out with a bag of ice wrapped in a hand towel. She holds it up like an offering.
“Sit,” she demands.
I sit on the edge of her bed.
Harlow steps closer, pauses for half a second like she’s choosing something, then presses the ice to my cheek.
Cold bites. My skin protests.
I don’t.
Because her hand is steady, and the contact is…careful. Intentional.
Harlow’s face is serious as she watches me. “Does it hurt?”
I swallow. “Not really.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re lying.”
“It was a punch. I’ve had worse.”
Harlow’s gaze goes sharp. “That’s not the point.”
“No,” I admit quietly. “It’s not.”
She presses the ice a little firmer.
“What did he say?” she asks softly.
My jaw tightens. I hate repeating it. I hate giving it air in her room. But I can see it in her face—the need to name the monster so it stops being a shadow.
So I say it. I keep it short. Clean. Ugly. Harlow goes still as I speak, eyes locked on mine like she’s forcing herself not to flinch.
When I finish, she swallows hard.
Then she says, voice flat, “He always did that.”
Harlow’s eyes drop to her own hands on the towel.
“He’d say it like it was a joke,” she continues, quieter. “Like he was being funny. Like everyone else was supposed to laugh so I’d feel stupid for being hurt.”
My stomach turns.
“And I—” She exhales, sharp. “I believed him.”
The words land like a weight. I use every ounce of my strength and restraint to keep from reaching out to her. The last thing I want to do is startle her.
Harlow keeps the ice at my cheek like it gives her something to do with her hands. I stare at her and I want to say a thousand things.
I choose one.
“You didn’t deserve any of that,” I say.
Harlow’s mouth twitches like she hates how obvious it is.
“I know,” she whispers.
Then, softer, “I know now.”
My chest swells with pride. That’s her ending to the story. Not that she got hurt, but that she survived long enough to learn she wasn’t the problem.
I swallow hard.
“Harlow,” I say quietly, “look at me.”
She does.
And the second her eyes meet mine, something in me goes steady.
“He doesn’t get to talk about you like that ever again,” I say. “Not because you need me to save you. You don’t. But because you’re not his to comment on.”
Harlow’s breath catches.
“And if anyone ever tries,” I add, voice low, “I will make sure it costs them.”
Her eyes shine, furious about it.
“You got yourself suspended,” she whispers.
I swallow. “I know.”
Harlow presses the ice to my cheek like she’s mad at it. “Gray—”
“It’s okay,” I cut in gently.
She stares at me, jaw tight. “I didn’t want that.”
“I didn’t do it because you wanted it,” I say. “I did it because I heard him say those things about you, and my body just moved.”
Harlow’s throat bobs.
Her voice is small. “That scares me.”
I nod once, because it should.
“Me too,” I admit.
Harlow’s eyes flick to my mouth for half a second, then back up.
“I don’t want you to ruin your life because of me,” she whispers.
My chest tightens. I lean forward slightly, careful not to crowd, and keep my voice steady.
“You couldn’t ruin my life even if you tried,” I say. “You’re not a cost. You’re not a consequence.”
Harlow swallows hard.
And then, like it breaks out of her without permission, she says, “You’re going to miss a couple games.”
I nod once. “Most likely.”
Her eyes flare. “That’s a big deal.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “But so are you.”
She stares at me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle that doesn’t have a clean answer. Then she whispers, almost angrily, “Why would you risk that?”
My chest aches. The answer is simple and terrifying. It’s the answer that changes everything. “Because I love something more than hockey. And that would be you.”
Harlow’s eyes soften. A tear clings to her lower lashes. “You love me?”
“I do.”
She drops the ice pack onto my shoulder and steps closer. She doesn’t sit. She just leans in and presses her forehead against mine, careful and quiet, before whispering the words I hoped she felt too. “I love you, Gray.”
My breath catches. I don’t move. When she pulls back, her voice is barely there.
“Thank you,” she whispers again. “For…not letting it slide.”
My throat tightens.
“I’m sorry you ever had to live with it,” I say.
Harlow’s mouth trembles once, then steadies.
“Stay,” she says.
Not as a command.
As a request.
My chest tightens. “Harlow—”
“I know,” she whispers. “Just…stay.”
I nod.
“Okay,” I say.
And for the first time since the puck dropped tonight, my body stops bracing for impact.
Because she’s still here.
And she isn’t looking away.