13. Kai
KAI
By the time we get to the rink for morning skate, I’ve replayed waking up with Wren against me so many times that I’m starting to hate myself.
It wasn’t even anything.
That is the worst part.
Nothing happened. No lines were crossed. We fell asleep on opposite sides of a king bed because the hotel was falling apart, the storm was doing its best to bury us in sleet, and I was too stubborn to admit sleeping on the floor before a game was stupid.
Then I woke up with her half on my chest and my arm around her waist, like my body had spent the night making decisions my head was too careful to make.
And for one second, it was perfect.
That’s the problem.
I know what good feels like. Good is a clean faceoff win. Good is a two-goal lead with forty seconds left. Good is a workout when every rep lands right, and my brain shuts up for long enough to let me breathe.
Perfect is Wren’s cheek against my chest, her hand curled in my shirt, her hair tickling my jaw while she sleeps like she trusts me even after everything we’ve been through.
I don’t know what to do with perfect.
So I do what I know.
I tape my stick, then I redo it because the first wrap is uneven.
Grayson watches from the next stall, his skates half-laced. “That’s the second time.”
I sigh. “It wasn’t flat enough the first time.”
I pull the tape tighter and focus on the blade. Clean edge, smooth overlap, no fraying. Something I can control.
Across the locker room, Coleson laughs loudly at something one of the freshmen says, then shoves the kid’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. Not enough to be obvious. Enough that I clock it.
“Richards,” I say.
His head turns. “What?”
“Easy.”
His mouth flattens. “It was a joke.”
“Then make it funny.”
A few guys go quiet. Coleson holds my stare for half a second longer than he should, then shrugs and looks away. The freshman mutters something about being fine, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
Another thing to handle later. Just what I need.
I finish taping my stick and stand. My hip twinges, not sharply, but enough to remind me that Wren was right about the floor. I try to let that thought annoy me, since it’s easier than admitting my mind can still faintly smell her shampoo.
Coach walks in before I can get any worse. “Morning skate starts in five. Keep it light, keep it clean. Road points matter. Discipline matters more.”
Weston raises a hand. “Does emotional discipline count?”
Coach stares at him.
Weston lowers his hand. “Withdrawn.”
Asher pats his shoulder once. “You’re learning, bud.”
I follow the team out, helmet in one hand, gloves in the other. Wren is near the tunnel with Donnelly, holding a clipboard and a bundle of towels. She’s in black jeans and a PCU sweatshirt, hair clipped back, face calm in the way people look calm when they’ve had to build it from scratch.
Her eyes flick to me.
The hallway disappears.
Not really. Obviously not. The team is moving around us, skates clacking, Coach barking something at Weston, Donnelly swearing under his breath because someone forgot a tape bag. But for half a second, all I see is her lying on my chest this morning.
Her hand tightens around the clipboard.
Mine tightens around my helmet.
Then she looks away.
Good.
No, not good.
I hate every option.
Morning skate goes better than I expect. My legs are fine once I get moving. My hip stops hurting once it’s loosened up, and my hands do what they’re supposed to do.
The game that night is ugly in the way road games get ugly when everyone is tired, and the opposing team is out for blood.
Their defensemen hit late. Their student section chants my name in a way that would be more creative if half of them knew how to rhyme.
Coleson takes a stupid penalty in the second, then acts like the ref was in the wrong for noticing.
We win 3–1.
I should feel better than I do.
I have an assist and a blocked shot that will bruise like hell by morning.
Weston gets the empty-netter and celebrates hard.
Asher stops thirty-one shots and says the last five were “annoying.” Grayson takes a puck off the shin, limps for exactly one shift, then glares at me when I ask if he’s good.
By the time we’re back on the bus, the rain is barely a sprinkle, and the whole team is running on exhaustion and vending-machine sugar. Wren sits near the front with Donnelly again, earbuds in, head resting against the window. She doesn’t look back.
I look forward too much.
“You’re getting weird,” Weston says from across the aisle.
I don’t take my eyes off the dark road. “I’ve always been weird.”
“Yeah, but this is brooding weird. You’re usually scary-calendar weird.”
Asher, behind him, hums. “Accurate distinction.”
Grayson looks at me from the seat beside mine. “Leave him alone.”
Weston grins. “That means there’s something to leave alone.”
“Or it just means you’re annoying,” I say.
“It can be both,” Asher says.
Weston points backward. “That felt supportive.”
“It wasn’t.”
Grayson leans close enough that only I hear him. “You good?”
I almost say yes.
It’s right there. Automatic. Safe.
Instead, I look past him to the front of the bus where Wren’s reflection shows faintly in the window, eyes closed, mouth soft, one hand tucked under her cheek.
“No,” I say quietly.
Grayson’s expression changes.
I don’t explain. I can’t, not here. Maybe not anywhere. Saying it out loud would make it bigger, and it’s already too big.
My feelings for Wren didn’t come back. Saying they came back would imply they actually left. It would mean I had three clean years where she was a memory, where missing her was just a leftover ache, where seeing her again sparked something new.
That’s not what this is.
They never left. I just got better at ignoring them when she wasn’t in front of me. Ignoring her used to take distance.
Now there’s none.
We get back to campus late Sunday morning, half the guys dead on their feet and the other half pretending they’re not. Donnelly makes everyone help unload, and Wren keeps up even though I can see exhaustion pulling at the corners of her face.
I don’t offer to carry every bag.
Progress.
I carry one.
Fine, two.
She catches me on the second and gives me a look.
“It was in my way,” I say.
“Interesting how often equipment becomes personally inconvenient for you when I’m near it.”
“Bad luck, I guess.”
Her mouth twitches. Mine almost answers.
Then Donnelly calls her name, and she turns away.
I watch her go.
Pathetic.
There’s no better word for it. I am the captain of a ranked college hockey team.
I have an NHL contract waiting. I can read defensive pressure, manage a locker room, talk down Weston when he decides bus karaoke is a leadership exercise, and still I’m standing in the equipment hallway hoping my ex-girlfriend looks back at me just for a second.
By Sunday night, my apartment is anything but quiet.
Movie night isn’t official. It just happens when everyone is too tired to go out and too restless to be alone.
Grayson gets Harlow settled on the couch with a blanket, which she insists she doesn’t need while immediately pulling it up to her chin.
Weston takes the armchair, and Asher sits on the floor with his back against the couch, eating chips.
I end up in the kitchen, pretending to clean a counter that is already clean.
Harlow watches me for too long.
I do my best to ignore her, wiping the counter again, but she keeps staring.
I sigh, putting down the rag and meeting my sister’s gaze. “What?”
“Oh, nothing.” She smiles, then immediately presses a hand to her stomach, face going a shade paler than normal.
Grayson sits up. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She waves him off. “Just tired. My stomach’s being kinda wonky since lunch.”
Weston lifts his head. “I know a guy who got food poisoning from gas station sushi once.”
Asher turns slowly. “Why would you say that?”
“I’m offering medical context.”
Harlow makes a face. “Please don’t say sushi again.”
Grayson’s hand moves to her knee, thumb brushing once. “Do you need some water?”
“I’m fine.”
Everyone looks at her.
She sighs. “Okay, I hate when people say that, so I understand the hypocrisy. Water would be nice.”
I get it before Grayson can. It gives me something to do that isn’t standing there with Wren’s absence pressing into the room harder than anyone else’s presence.
Harlow takes the glass and studies me over the rim. “You’re twitchy.”
“I’m not twitchy.”
“You’ve cleaned the same counter four times.”
Weston points a chip at me. “This is why people think captains are freaks.”
“They don’t,” I say.
“Oh, they do. I started the rumors myself.”
Asher takes the chip out of his hand and eats it.
“Betrayal,” Weston whispers. “Get your own fucking chips.”
The movie starts; I sit in the chair near the window, arms folded, eyes on the screen and mind absolutely nowhere near it.
Halfway through the movie, my phone buzzes.
For one stupid second, I think it’s her.
It isn’t.
Harlow: Stop looking so tragic. You’re bringing down the room.
I look over.
She’s on the couch five feet away, phone in hand, face too pale under the blanket. Grayson is focused on the movie, or pretending to be.
Kai: stop texting me from the same room.
Harlow: Stop being emotionally loud.
Kai: you’re sick. harass someone else.
Harlow: I am not sick.
She lowers her phone, then immediately winces and presses a hand to her stomach again.
Grayson catches it this time. “Harlow.”
“I’m okay.” She closes her eyes for a second. “Maybe I picked something up from the twins. They were definitely a handful this weekend.” She sits up slowly. “I might go home. I told Wren I’d help tomorrow morning because her mom picked up an early shift, but I can text her.”
“Help with what?” I ask.
Harlow looks at me, and even sick, even pale, even wrapped in Grayson’s blanket, she knows exactly what she just did.
“Nothing.”
“Harlow.”
She winces. “Her mom’s car broke down this morning, so Wren is letting her use her car, and I was going to pick up Wren and the twins tomorrow morning and take them to school. The boys arranged rides with their friends, so it’s just the littles that we need to get.”
“I can do it.”
The room goes quiet.
Weston lowers his chip bag. “Sorry, what?”
I look at Harlow, not him. “I can go.”
Harlow’s brows lift. “You have morning workout.”
“I can move it.”
Grayson studies me, a knowing grin taking over.
“It’s not like I’ve never skipped a workout before,” I say, then instantly regret my word choice, as I most definitely haven’t skipped a workout before. “I’m capable of driving children to school.”
Weston raises a hand. “Do they know that?”
Harlow leans back, looking tired enough that the argument leaves her face. “Kai, you don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Wren might be a little more than displeased,” Harlow says, giving me another chance to take back my offer, but I don’t. “She might yell at you. She’s not exactly a morning person.”
I chuckle, because that’s an understatement. “She probably will.”
Weston points at me. “Why do you sound hopeful? Is that your kink?”
I throw a pillow at him without looking.
He catches it against his chest and gasps. “Violence. In my vulnerable space.”
“It’s the living room,” Asher says.
“My vulnerability lives here.”
Harlow’s eyes soften, which is worse than teasing. “You sure?”
No.
“Yes.”
She watches me a second longer, then nods. “Okay. I’ll text her that I’m sick, and you’re coming instead.”
I stand there while she texts, every muscle in my body suddenly aware of the plan forming around me.
Harlow frowns at her phone. “I sent a text letting her know, but it isn’t showing up as delivered. My guess would be her phone died, but I’m sure she’ll charge it tonight at some point and see it.”
“What time?”
“She said seven.”
I check my calendar in my head and ignore the way everyone watches me do it.
“I’ll be there at six forty-five.”
I sit back down, but the movie is over for me.
I hate that I want to be needed by her.
I hate more that I want to be wanted.