4. Kai
KAI
Coach blows the whistle, and half the team looks like they’re seeing God.
Weston drops to one knee at the blue line. Not because he’s hurt. No, it’s because he’s dramatic as shit.
“Tell my story,” he rasps, one gloved hand pressed to his chest. “Tell them I was brave.”
Asher lifts his mask from the crease. “You missed the net by six feet on the last rep.”
Weston winces slightly and points weakly at him. “Maybe revise history a bit before you tell anyone.”
“You shot at the glass.”
“I was sending a message.”
“To who?” Grayson asks. “The boards?”
“To my enemies.”
“You have one enemy,” I say, skating past him. “And that would be cardio.”
Weston looks up at me. “You forgot Sam Thompson, but still, that’s hurtful.”
I shake my head. We’ve been on the ice for almost two hours, and Coach ended practice the way he always does after a break—with enough conditioning to make everyone regret every choice they made over vacation.
Good.
Regret is useful if you know what to do with it.
I skate a slow lap while the rest of them drag themselves toward the bench. My legs burn. My lungs are tight. Sweat has gathered beneath every layer of gear I’m wearing, and my right hip has that dull, stubborn ache it gets when I overwork it and pretend I didn’t.
I ignore it.
There are too many other things to pay attention to.
One of the freshmen is pale near the bench, looking like he’s trying really hard not to puke all over the ice. Grayson is favoring his left side by maybe five percent, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for me to file away and ask about later.
Weston is still on one knee.
That’s less concerning.
Across the ice, Coleson Richards is already heading for the gate, helmet tucked under one arm.
Of course. Heaven forbid he even try to get along with the team for once.
“Richards,” I call.
He slows but doesn’t turn all the way around. “Yeah?”
“Team stretch.”
His mouth flattens. “I’m good.”
I skate closer. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
His eyes flick over my shoulder, where the rest of the guys have gone quieter. Coleson hates an audience, unless he’s the one controlling it. Today, he isn’t.
“I said I’m good,” he repeats.
“And I said team stretch.” I keep my voice even. “Last I checked, you’re part of the team.”
He sneers. “Could’ve fooled me.”
If you acted like it, maybe you’d feel like it.
I don’t say that out loud, though. Leadership, about ninety percent of the time, is not saying the first thing that comes to mind or the thing that would make me feel good in the moment. Sadly, I’ve had to learn to keep a heavy filter on my mouth, but I can’t say the same for my face sometimes.
“Then stop making it hard to remember,” I say.
A tiny choking sound comes from behind me, and I don’t have to look to know it came from Weston.
Coleson’s eyes narrow.
For a second, I think he’ll fight me more. Part of me wants him to. But instead, he looks away.
“Fine.”
He skates back toward the group. Definitely not with a shining attitude, but he does it anyway.
I’ll take the win.
Might turn out to be more of a pain in the ass later. Still counts, though.
By the time Coach releases us, the guys flood into the tunnel like they’ve been granted early parole.
The hallway to the locker room smells like rubber mats, sweat, and whatever industrial cleaner the rink staff uses to pretend hockey players are civilized and smell halfway decent after sweating our asses off.
Weston walks backward in front of me, still refusing to let go of our earlier conversation.
“I want it on record that I survived because of my inner strength.”
“You survived because Asher stopped everything you shot near him.”
Asher snorts behind us. “Saying those were near me is really generous.”
“See?” Weston gestures at him. “No one on this team is supportive.”
“You owe me an apology,” Asher says.
“For what?”
“For making me watch you suck that bad.”
Weston presses a hand to his heart. “No one even loves me anymore.”
The locker room absorbs us in a burst of noise. Gear hits stalls. Shower sandals slap tile. Someone starts complaining about a professor assigning reading during the first week like academics are a personal attack.
The freshman who made a mess of the ice sits across from me, still looking a few shades paler than normal.
I grab a water bottle from my stall and toss it to him. “Drink.”
“I’m fine.”
“Trust me, I’ve been in your position. You’re not super fine right now, and if you don’t hydrate properly, you will regret it big time in a few hours.”
He doesn’t argue with that, taking the water and muttering a thank you.
I sit and start unlacing my skates, but my brain is already lining out everything else I need to do or remember for later.
Practice notes. Film at four. Lift groups tomorrow. The defenseman’s shoulder. The freshman’s conditioning. Coleson’s attitude. Grayson’s left side. Weston’s inability to take anything seriously.
The Stormbreakers call at one.
Business Ethics quiz due by midnight.
Group project meeting I forgot to confirm.
Treatment before film if I want Dane off my back.
Wren.
I yank the lace too hard, and the aglet snaps against my finger.
“Careful,” Grayson says from the stall beside me.
I glance over. “I’m unlacing a skate.”
“Looks more like you’re attacking it.”
Weston drops onto the bench across from us. “Everything Kai does looks like a hostile takeover. Especially since you know who returned.”
“It’s called focus,” I say. “And Wren has nothing to do with it.”
“Maybe you possibly need a hug?”
“Do not hug me.”
“See?” Weston points at Grayson. “Hostile.”
Grayson smiles, but he knows more than Weston. Sometimes I hate that he’s become almost like a brother to me, but I also trust him more than almost anyone, which is inconvenient and deeply annoying.
“You still have your call with Seattle today?” Grayson asks.
I nod my head. “Yeah. Just a check-in.”
Weston perks up. “Are they calling to tell you they miss you? Because I miss you already, and you’re still here.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Will I?”
“No one knows,” Asher says. “I don’t think I will with both of you leaving me with Wes.”
I strip off my shoulder pads and hang them neatly in my stall. Everything has a place. Tape in the side pocket. Gloves clipped. Base layer into laundry. Skates aligned, toe-out.
But order doesn’t seem to fix the nonstop spirals in my mind lately.
“Who’s the call with?” Grayson asks.
“Dane.”
Dane Whitaker is Seattle’s player development director, which means he’s technically not my coach yet and still somehow manages to sound like one every time we talk. Former defenseman with zero patience for bullshit. He’s been my main contact with the Stormbreakers since I was drafted.
He checks in every couple weeks.
Training load. Classes. Injuries. Nutrition. Sleep. Mental state.
The last one is always where I lie the most.
Not in obvious ways. I’m not stupid.
I give him polished truth. Enough honesty to sound healthy, enough omission to keep him from booking a flight to come drag me into a sports psych appointment himself.
“I’m hitting the showers,” I say. “Film at four. Don’t be late.”
Weston salutes. “Yes, Dad.”
Grayson waits until I pass before murmuring, “You know you’re allowed to want the next thing and still try to enjoy this one.”
The hot water helps for approximately four minutes.
Then I’m dressed, packed, and standing outside the athletic facility with my phone buzzing in my hand at exactly 12:58.
Dane is two minutes early. Of course he is.
I answer on the second ring because answering on the first feels desperate.
“Mercer,” he says.
“Whitaker.”
“Still alive?”
“Unfortunately for some of my teammates.”
“That bad?”
“First full skate after break.”
He makes a sympathetic noise that doesn’t contain much sympathy. “Good. They should suffer a little.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
“Don’t. They’ll think I’m joking.” A pause. “Talk to me.”
I adjust the strap of my backpack and head toward the business building. “Practice was good. Conditioning needs work. Timing is a little off after break, but not bad. We’ll clean it up by the weekend.”
“I wasn’t asking about the team. I was asking about you.”
I exhale through my nose. “I feel good.”
“How’s the hip?”
My right hip has been giving me some grief for the last year, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. “It’s tight after heavy reps. Nothing sharp, just a bit achy. I’m managing it, making sure I don’t overdo it, and I’ve made sure to make time for extra rehab sessions. It’s fine.”
“There’s that word again. You seem to really like using it just about as much as my wife does.”
I chuckle, though the sound is hollow.
“I’m serious,” he says. “Seattle wants you healthy more than we want you heroic.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I don’t answer right away.
A group of students passes by me laughing, one of them walking backward while telling a story with both hands. For a second, shorter blonde hair catches at the edge of my vision, and my body reacts before my brain does.
Not Wren.
I look away, annoyed with myself for hoping she was in the group just so I could see her.
“I know,” I say again.
Dane is quiet for half a beat. He hears too much for a guy on the phone.
“How’s the captain part going?”
“It’s good. We’ve got a strong room. Guys are bought in. Freshmen are adjusting.”
“And the newer transfer, Richards? How’s he fitting in?”
I look back toward the rink even though Coleson isn’t there.
“That one is a very large work in progress.”
“That means pain in the ass.”
“Can’t really argue with that. He’s talented, but he definitely doesn’t jive with the team just yet. I’m hopeful we can get there, but I guess time will tell.”
“Fair enough.” His voice softens slightly. “You still on track to graduate?”
“Yeah. Business requirements are done after this term if I don’t fail Strategic Management, which would be embarrassing enough that I’d have to change my name. Can’t say I’m excited to write a fifteen-page market analysis for my final while trying to win a championship.”
“Good. Finish the degree. Finish the season. Then we move our focus to Seattle and getting you on our ice.”
The words should settle me. Excite me, even.
Sometimes they do.
Seattle is the plan. The next step. The thing I’ve worked toward since I was old enough to understand that hockey could be more than early mornings and bruises, and my dad flooding the backyard so I could skate until my toes went numb.
Being officially drafted to Seattle at the end of this season means all of this—the blood, sweat, and tears I’ve shed for this sport—has been worth something.
So why does the thought of leaving suddenly feel like another thing I haven’t learned how to do right?
“You still there, Mercer?” Dane asks.
Clearing my throat, I remember that I’m in the middle of a conversation. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll let you get going; I know you have other things to do. But one last thing, Kai,” he says. “You don’t have to arrive in Seattle already perfect. We signed you because of who you are, not because we expect you to become a machine.”
My throat tightens in a way I don’t appreciate.
“I know,” I say.
This time, I try to mean it.
We hang up as I approach the business building. I stand there for a second, phone in my hand, letting Dane’s words sit uncomfortably under my skin.
I have class in seven minutes, film in three hours, treatment before that now, a quiz due tonight, and a future in Seattle that gets closer every day.
There is a list. There is always a list. The list is manageable. The list makes sense.
Wren Calloway is not on the list.
Which is probably why I can’t stop thinking about her.
By the time I get back to the apartment that evening, I’m running purely on caffeine, protein, and whatever stubborn chemical your body produces when it refuses to collapse.
Walking inside, I set my keys in the bowl by the door, having to nudge them once until they sit flat.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Fishing it out, I see a text from Grayson.
Grayson: I’m running behind, but harlow is stopping by. i made some pasta salad before film for her so don’t touch it. weston already tried eating it.
I get another text before I’m finished reading whatever he sent next. This one from Harlow.
Harlow: Coming up now. Wren is with me. Be normal!!
I freeze with one hand on the fridge door.
For a second, all I hear is the rush of blood in my ears.
Be normal.
There are two problems with that.
The first is that Harlow only tells me to be normal when she has very little faith I’m capable of it.
The second is that I haven’t been normal about Wren for a single day in my life.
I hear the click of the lock before I can decide whether to flee, hide, or attempt to act like I don’t care.
The door opens; Harlow comes in first, cheeks pink like she’s been laughing, her eyes meeting mine for just a second, but my gaze shifts the second Wren steps in behind her.
And there goes any chance I had at acting normal.
I can’t help myself, my eyes taking in every inch of her.
She’s wearing bright pink Converse with lime-green laces, her tan legs disappearing under denim shorts that have been frayed along the edges.
A white shirt hugs the curve of her waist, a sliver of skin peeking out from beneath the fabric.
Her hair is twisted up with a claw clip, but half of it has escaped around her face.
And her eyes, pools of blue that I’d happily drown in, are now focused right on mine.
A faint blush brings the prettiest shade of pink to her cheeks, hiding her freckles slightly.
“Hi,” she says.
One word.
Ridiculous, how much damage one word can do.
“Hi.”
Harlow looks between us with the subtlety of a flashing hazard sign. “Great. Love this. Everyone is being so normal.”
I glare at her.
Wren lets out a tiny laugh under her breath.
Grayson appears in the doorway, saving all of us from whatever fresh hell Harlow was about to orchestrate. She lights up and turns to him immediately, throwing her arms around his neck, and he catches her like he’s been waiting all day to do exactly that.
Which leaves Wren by the door, and me in the kitchen, with about six feet of space between us that somehow feels like every mile from the last three years.
“You can come in,” I say.
Her mouth quirks. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure if there was a formal entry process.”
“Usually a background check.”
“Strict.”
“Very.”
She steps farther inside and closes the door behind her. “I’ll try to look trustworthy.”
I have the strongest urge to go to her, but I grip the edge of the counter instead, physically making myself stay right where I am.
Harlow claps once. “Okay. I’m stealing Grayson for a second.”
She drags him toward his room, leaving the apartment suddenly too quiet behind them.
Wren shifts her bag higher on her shoulder.
For the first time all day, there is no drill to run, no call to answer, no list to complete.
Just Wren Calloway standing in my kitchen, looking like a problem I never learned how to solve.