9 - Grayson
Grayson
The flight home feels twice as long after a loss.
The cabin lights are dimmed low, most of the team either asleep or pretending to be, but the tension is still heavy between the rows anyway. Headphones are on, and hoodies are up. Most quiet conversations fizzle out right after starting. Nobody wants to relive tonight.
I slouch deeper into my seat and stare out the window into complete darkness, jaw tight enough to ache.
We should’ve won that game.
Instead, we spent the entire time looking disconnected and sloppy.
Nathan being injured is throwing everything off worse than anyone wants to admit.
Losing his points was bad enough, but his balance on the ice would’ve made all the difference tonight.
He keeps the bench calm and has chemistry with everyone he plays with.
Without him, nothing is working.
Beside me, Wyatt looks equally homicidal, sprawled in his seat with his arms crossed and his headphones hanging uselessly around his neck. His hat is pulled low over his eyes, but I can tell he’s awake from the way his foot keeps bouncing against the floor.
“You look pleasant,” I mutter.
“Well, I let in three goals tonight, what the fuck do you expect?”
“Considering they had over forty shots on goal, I’d say you did more than enough.”
“We couldn’t complete a pass to save our lives tonight.”
I exhale sharply through my nose. “Don’t remind me.”
Wyatt finally glances over, brows pulling together. “You’re extra pissy.”
“We lost.”
“We lose sometimes.”
“Yeah, well, I hate it every time.”
“That’s why you’re the captain.”
“As if you aren’t in the middle of a bitch fit.”
We fall into a frustrated silence. The engines hum steadily beneath us while one of the trainers laughs somewhere farther up the aisle. Somebody drops a bag in the overhead compartment with a loud bang.
Wyatt tilts his head toward me again. “Are you going to stop glaring at the window like it’s the reason we got our asses kicked tonight?”
“No.”
“Healthy.”
“I’m serious,” I mutter. “We looked like shit tonight.”
“We looked tired.”
“We looked sloppy.”
“That too.”
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Wyatt notices immediately. “Ah. Your weekly harassment call.”
“My sister likes me.”
“She bullies you recreationally.”
“That’s how she shows affection.”
Wyatt grunts. “I can’t believe you’ve roped me into your sick family.”
I answer the call, already feeling some of the tension ease from my shoulders. “Hey, Katie.”
“Look at that, losers do answer the phone.” Her voice comes warm and light through the speaker. “I wasn’t sure after my last one went to voicemail.”
“Sorry, I was a little busy losing the game.”
Something in my tone must give away my actual mood, because her tone shifts from playful to caring older sister in an instant.
“You’ll get them next time, Gray.”
“We should’ve had them this time.” I pull at a loose thread on my sweatshirt sleeve.
“You’ve always been so hard on yourself.”
“That’s because I’m surrounded by underachievers.”
I’m joking, and she knows it. Wyatt does too, but he still flips me off without even opening his eyes.
Katie laughs. “Tell Wyatt I said hi.”
“He’s pretending to sleep.”
“He’s so dramatic.”
“He heard you.”
“Good.”
Wyatt lifts one hand lazily in acknowledgment. I shake my head slightly, smiling despite myself.
Katie has always been able to pull me out of a bad mood faster than anyone else. Probably because she’s been doing it my entire life. Being the youngest sibling with three older sisters means I’ve spent most of my existence getting bossed around by women who love me too much.
“Dad sent me twelve separate texts analyzing the third-period collapse,” she says.
“That man treats hockey like military strategy.”
She laughs, but doesn’t bother trying to deny it. “He once called me crying after you lost in overtime.”
“He did not cry.”
“He absolutely cried.” There’s rustling on her end before she speaks again. “So, when are you coming to dinner? You’re in New York next month”
Most of my family is in Indiana, but Katie moved to New York for her husband’s job a couple of years ago. Whenever we play there, I make time to see them.
“I’ll be there,” I promise. “Don’t know what the schedule looks like yet, but plan on me for at least one meal.”
“You’d better. The kids ask about you constantly.”
“That’s because I’m their favorite.” I sing-song.
“You buy them candy and teach them bad words.”
“I’m building character.”
“You taught Mason how to trash-talk.”
My lips tilt up in a smile. “He’s a natural talent.”
I hear Mason yelling something unintelligible in the background, followed by Katie laughing.
My shoulders relax at the sound.
“They all said they love you,” she says like she knows I need the reminder. “Remember that when you’re busy acting like the world is ending over one hockey game.”
I lean my head back against the seat and look out the tiny oval window. Boston lights glow faintly below us now.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Love you guys.”
“Love you too, Gray. And bring Wyatt to dinner.”
Wyatt groans immediately, overhearing her words. “Why am I involved?”
“Because she likes you more than me,” I tell him.
“Who doesn’t?”
My mood is significantly less bleak after talking to her. Despite my family’s constant state of chaos, I always feel happier after talking to them.
Wyatt peeks one eye open. “So, family dinner?”
“You’re expected.”
“With the tiny psychopaths?” He cocks an eyebrow at me.
“They’re children.”
“One of them bit me last Christmas.”
I shrug. “That was because you told him Santa wasn’t real.”
“He needed to hear it eventually.”
“You deserved to be bitten.”
He grumbles under his breath as the plane’s wheels hit the ground.
“You’re also getting a drink with me tonight,” I add.
“No, the hell I’m not.”
“Oh, c’mon.” I start putting my things into my bag. “If I said captain’s orders, would you reconsider?”
“You could be the fucking King of England, and I still wouldn’t reconsider.” He pushes his hood back, but leaves his hat on, casting a shadow across his face. “I want to sleep.”
“It’s only nine. I’m too wired and pissed off to go home.”
“Sounds like a you problem.” He tosses his bag onto his back.
The second we deplane, Wyatt disappears toward the parking garage while I contemplate my choices.
Going out alone isn’t really my thing. I’m not a solo guy. Then again, my inability to be alone is why I’ve sworn off relationships for a while. Maybe that means going out by myself is a step in the right direction.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
I’m halfway to the Blue Line before I spot a crowded bar a few streets over and make a last-second turn to park on the street.
If I’m doing this alone, I might as well go somewhere new.
When I walk inside, heat and noise slam into me. The floor sticks slightly beneath my shoes. Every table is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people drinking and shouting over each other.
Honestly, it’s not a bad atmosphere.
There are dartboards along the back wall, a couple of pool tables near the far side of the room, and a dance floor crowded with bodies moving beneath flashing lights.
I order a whiskey at the bar.
Before I can finish half of it, one of the guys near the dartboards catches me watching their game.
“You’ve got that look,” he says, pointing a dart at me. “Like you think you can do better.”
“I know I can do better.”
“That confidence usually means you suck.”
“Probably,” I agree.
Turns out, I don’t suck.
Within a few attempts, I’m getting dragged into rounds with three guys who are all already drunk, arguing over rules they clearly don’t fully understand.
One works in construction. One teaches middle school history and looks permanently exhausted because of it. The third talks about football like he’s being paid by the word.
Nobody mentions hockey once.
I can’t tell if they genuinely don’t recognize me or if they do and are politely ignoring it. Either way, I appreciate feeling normal.
For a while, I relax. Not fully, but enough that tonight’s loss stops replaying in my head. Eventually, I step away to order another drink, leaning against the bar while I scan the crowd.
My gaze stops cold as I catch sight of fire-red curls and a body that’s been burned into my brain for two weeks.
Avery.
My entire body goes still before my brain catches up.
She’s near the center of the crowd as colored lights flash over her skin. A guy stands behind her with his hands on her hips. She’s swaying with the music, laughing at something he says near her ear, head tipping back slightly.
And against all logic, irritation punches through me. Because, despite whatever the hell happened behind the bar two weeks ago and the fact that she manages to irritate me within thirty seconds of every interaction, my body still remembers exactly how she felt beneath my hands.
Her pulse had jumped beneath my fingers when I grabbed her wrist. She looked up at me afterward like she was angry at herself for reacting at all.
I’ve spent two weeks avoiding her because whatever that was felt dangerous in a way I don’t like. Avery seems like the kind of woman who would set my life on fire just to stay warm herself.
And regardless of that entire encounter, I still can’t stand her. If anything, I’m more convinced than ever that we should stay the hell away from each other. Unfortunately, the universe seems to have different ideas.
I take another sip and force myself to look away, but before I do, she stumbles. It’s not a cute little misstep either. It’s a drunk one.
The guy catches her around the waist while she steadies herself against him. My brows pull together while I watch her more closely.
A second later, she nearly loses her balance again.
My stomach coils into a knot as I realize that she’s drunk, and the guy holding her either hasn’t noticed or is vile enough not to care.
I’m already moving before I fully decide to.
By the time I reach the edge of the dance floor, the guy has both hands sliding along her sides, holding her upright while Avery sways beneath the lights, her eyes unfocused and her cheeks flushed.
I see red.
“Hey.” My voice carries harshly over the music.
The guy looks over, annoyance flashing across his face. “Problem?”
“Yeah.” My eyes flick to Avery again as she sways where she stands. “She’s drunk.”
“No shit. We’re in a bar.”
“She can barely stand.”
His expression hardens. “She’s fine.”
Avery chooses that exact moment to trip over absolutely nothing. I catch her elbow before she can faceplant into the floor.
Jesus Christ.
Up close, it’s worse. Her pupils are blown wide, and her movements are delayed as her brain lags behind the rest of her body.
She smells like tequila.
I look at her, trying to gauge how gone she actually is. “How much have you had tonight?”
She squints at me like the question requires advanced calculus.
The blond guy steps closer again. “Dude, back off.”
I look up slowly. My expression must say it all because his posture changes almost immediately.
“I’m serious,” he says, but there’s less bite behind it now.
“Listen carefully.” My voice stays calm. “You can walk away now, or I can make tonight extremely unpleasant for you.”
His jaw ticks. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
I almost laugh. Normally, I hate pulling this card. It feels obnoxious and arrogant and exactly like the kind of guy I try not to be. But considering Avery looks about three minutes away from alcohol poisoning, the last thing on my mind is how I come across.
“Grayson Shaw,” I say evenly, expression hardening. “And I can promise I’ve laid out bigger men than you. Want to see?”
Recognition flashes across his face, and his cheeks flush.
Yeah. There it is.
“If you keep touching her while she can barely stand upright,” I continue, “I’m going to end up in jail tonight.”
“Jesus. Calm down.”
“This is me being calm.” I gently tug Avery’s arm out of his grasp.
The guy stares at me for a beat before muttering something under his breath and backing off into the crowd.
Fucking coward.
My body is strung tight as a wire with the kind of adrenaline I usually only feel on the ice. I don’t lose my cool like this. I don’t threaten people. I mentally add it to the list of reasons I should stay the hell away from Avery.
Her impulsiveness must be contagious.
As soon as he’s gone, she finally looks at me. I brace for the usual glare followed by a sarcastic comment. Surely, there is some sort of insult or variation of go to hell resting on the tip of her tongue.
But when her unfocused eyes meet mine, her entire face lights up, a smile spreading ear to ear. It’s bright and unrestrained.
“Hi, Grayson,” she says happily, like we’re old friends instead of the enemies she forces us to be. Her hand wraps around my wrist, and the heat of her skin does unholy things to my mind. As if that isn’t torturous enough, she pulls me closer and yells over the music. “Dance with me.”