19. Wren
WREN
For one week, Kai Mercer and I become experts at almost.
Almost touching.
Almost pretending we haven’t kissed. Twice.
Almost pretending we’re normal.
It starts Monday night, when he follows me home from the rink, and I spend the whole drive pretending his headlights in my rearview don’t make me feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy, appreciating that someone takes the time to make sure I’m okay.
It gets worse Tuesday, when I find another water bottle and my favorite granola bar waiting beside my clipboard before practice.
Wednesday, he catches me in the hallway outside the equipment room, reaches past me for a roll of black tape, and murmurs, “Feeling better today?”
My whole body reacts to his presence as if his mouth is on my neck.
“A little,” I say, because lying feels pointless when he’s standing close enough to notice my pulse.
His eyes drop there, to the side of my throat. To the traitorous beat giving me away.
“You seem a little excited about something. Better take it easy today,” he says with a wink.
Then he walks into practice and leaves me staring after him like an idiot.
By Thursday, I’m considering requesting workplace hazard pay after seeing him shirtless…twice. It’s starting to feel intentional.
By Friday, Harlow takes one look at me before class and says, “You’re either ovulating or emotionally compromised.”
I choke on my coffee.
“Harlow.”
“What? I’m being supportive.”
“That’s not support. Plus, I don’t think you can ovulate while actively on your period, either.”
“It can be both. You’re right on that, so maybe your hormones are acting up.” She drops into the chair across from me and narrows her eyes. “You and my brother are acting very suspicious, and I don’t know why you’re still trying to fight it.”
“Your brother was born weird.”
“I mean, even weirder than normal.”
I pretend to scroll through my phone, even though the screen is locked. “Maybe he’s stressed.”
“Wren.”
“Maybe he’s captaining.”
“Wren.”
“Maybe Mercury is in retrograde.”
She doesn’t laugh, and that was humorous. I sigh and set my phone face down. “Nothing happened.”
Technically, that isn’t even close to true.
Her eyebrows lift.
“Recently,” I add.
“Hm.”
“As in, in the last four days. Unless you count seeing him shirtless multiple times as something.”
“So nothing happened between you two outside of anything that’s happened between you and the rest of the team?”
I glare at her, my cheeks heating slightly. “I hate you.”
“You love me.” She leans forward, softer now. “Are you okay with whatever ‘nothing’ was?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
She nods her head, as if she can possibly understand the mess happening in my brain. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
My best friend shrugs. “Yeah. I can’t force things out of you. Take your time, and whenever you’re ready, I’m here.”
Saturday arrives with another home game, another night of PCU students packing the rink, another chance for me to prove I can work around Kai without turning into a cautionary tale about unresolved first love and poor impulse control.
I last forty-seven minutes.
That’s generous, actually. Forty-seven minutes is when he catches my wrist near the tape shelf.
Before that, I’m already failing in slightly less obvious ways.
Like during warm-ups, when he skates by the boards and taps two gloved fingers against the glass right where I’m standing. Then Weston sees it and nearly trips over the blue line because he’s too busy wagging his eyebrows at me.
When Kai comes off after the first period, breathing hard, cheeks flushed from the ice, and asks, “You good?”
“I feel like I should be the one asking you that.” I level him with the best glare I can muster at the moment. “You’re annoying.”
He smiles at that. “Still not an answer.”
Thankfully, Coach calls his name, and he’s gone before I can decide whether to throw a towel at him or kiss him until neither of us remembers what sport he plays.
PCU wins again.
Barely.
2–1, with Asher saving the entire team from a loss in overtime, and Weston’s last-second goal sealing the deal.
The locker room is loud afterward, but not as wild as last week.
Coleson is quiet, but his expression lets everyone know he’s more than pissed.
He rode the bench the first period on his captain’s recommendation, according to Weston.
“Completely unrelated to him disrespecting you,” he says.
“Weston.”
“Totally separate. Nothing to do with him being a monumental ass.”
Asher, passing behind him, says, “Subtle.”
I laugh because I can’t help it.
Grayson gives me a nod when he passes as Weston keeps up a constant stream of nonsense about victory snacks, and the importance of clean socks and remembering to actually put them in your bag.
Kai barely says anything to me.
That should help, but it doesn’t. He’s traded words I can hear for looks I can feel, everywhere.
Every time my gaze catches his, I swear the room heats a few more degrees.
By the time the locker room clears, my skin feels too tight.
Donnelly sends me home early, which is a much-needed reprieve for the day. I grab my bag from the equipment room, shove my keys into the front pocket, and make it all the way to my car before I realize my phone is missing.
“Well shit,” I mumble, digging through it again.
Notebook, wallet, multiple ChapStick tubes, a million hair ties, one of the twins’ socks, a granola bar from Kai, because apparently I’m collecting emotional support snacks now.
No phone.
I groan. “Of course.”
The rink is mostly empty when I go back inside. The hallway lights have dimmed to their after-hours glow. My footsteps echo on the concrete.
The locker room should be empty by now, which is the last place I remember checking my phone to make sure everyone at home was good and on schedule.
I see Coach heading out with two assistants. Kai’s truck is still outside, but he has a habit of staying late for film, stretching, captain things, or whatever responsible activity he can find.
I push open the locker room door.
“Hello?” I call, because I’m not an idiot and walking silently into a men’s locker room is how people end up dead, embarrassed, or both.
No answer.
Good.
The room smells like soap, damp gear, and whatever industrial cleaner Donnelly uses that could probably strip paint.
I spot my phone almost immediately.
Of course it’s on the bench near the tape shelf.
The same tape shelf Kai reached past me earlier, close enough that his chest brushed my shoulder, and I forgot every word I’ve ever learned.
I cross the room, grab the phone, and exhale when the screen lights up. Three texts from Harlow. One from Mom saying she’d be home before bed tonight.
Then I hear the shower.
I freeze.
Water runs somewhere beyond the tiled entrance to the showers and steam curls faintly around the corner.
My brain offers several possibilities.
One: someone left a shower on.
Two: the building is haunted by a very hygienic ghost.
Three: someone is still here.
The third option should have me hightailing it out of here immediately.
Instead, because I’m apparently determined to make terrible choices in life, I call again, “Hello?”
The water keeps running, but no one answers.
Then I hear a sound.
Not loud.
Not even enough to be certain.
A breath, maybe. A rough exhale. Something low and restrained that makes the back of my neck prickle.
My pulse jumps.
“Anyone in here?”
Silence.
Then his voice comes through the steam, rougher than it should be.
“Wren.”
Just my name, that’s all, but the way he says it turns my bones liquid.
“What are you doing in here?” he asks.
“I forgot my phone.”
“Did you get it?”
I look down at the phone in my hand like it might provide moral guidance.
“Yes.”
“Then you should go.”
He says it like an order, or maybe like a plea.
I should listen, but something in the tone of his voice makes sure I don’t.
“Kai,” I say carefully. “Are you okay?”
A pause, then a quiet, humorless laugh.
“No.”
My stomach drops.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Then what—”
“Wren.”
One word. A warning.
I take one step forward before I can think better of it.
Steam thickens around the entrance to the showers. The air is warmer here, damp against my cheeks, my throat, the bare strip of skin at my wrist. The water keeps running, hitting tile in a steady rhythm.
I see him through the steam.
Kai stands under the spray with one forearm braced against the tile, head bowed, wet hair falling forward. His other hand is low, tense, and the second he sees me, he goes completely still, the water falling against his chiseled back before continuing down to the floor.
My breath stops.
Oh.
Oh.
The realization hits so hard I almost drop my phone.
He wasn’t injured; he definitely wasn’t just showering.
He was alone in here after a game, after a week of looking at me like he wanted to come apart, and he was—
“Oh my God.” I turn so fast my wet sneaker squeaks against the tile. “I saw nothing. I’m leaving.”
“You don’t have to run, Freckles.”
The nickname snaps through me, old and dangerously reminiscent of easier times. “I’m not running.”
“You’re facing the wrong way for someone who’s not running.”
“You’re naked.”
His voice lowers. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
My face goes hot enough to rival the steam. I close my eyes.
Life is so unfair. What do you mean he looks like that under his clothes? How does one individual find so much favor from life!
Behind me, the water shuts off.
I hear movement, and I’m silently praying he grabbed a towel to at least cover some of the view; then again, I wouldn't exactly mind…
Get it together, Wren.
“You can turn around,” he says.
I don’t. “Are you decent?”
He chuckles, a low, gravelly sound. “Enough.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
My pulse pounds so hard I feel it in my fingertips. I slowly turn around to face him.
Kai stands a few feet away, towel low on his hips, water still dripping down his chest and shoulders. His hair is wet, his jaw tight, his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. He is covered enough that I can look at him.
He’s not covered enough for me to think clearly.