For the first time in a long time, someone wasn’t telling me to tone it down.
He was telling me to show up.
All of me.
My face broke into a smile before I could stop it, that goofy kind that crinkled my nose and probably made me look like a cartoon character. But I didn’t care.
“Okay,” I said softly, nodding like it was no big deal even though my whole chest was swelling with something I hadn’t felt in ages.
Belonging.
The second the words you’re coming settled into the air, I shot out of bed like I’d been launched from a cannon.
“Oh, my gosh—I need to brush my teeth. And my hair. Where even is my brush—did I pack it?” I rambled, already half-tripping over the hoodie that hung past my knees. I scooped up my bag, dug through it like a raccoon in a glittery panic, and emerged victorious with my toothbrush clutched like a tiny sword.
Nikolai stepped back to let me fly past him, the soft thud of my feet echoing down the hall toward the bathroom.
Behind me, I heard it. That sound. A low, barely-there huff of a laugh he was clearly trying not to let slip.
I turned my head as I passed him, pointing the toothbrush at his chest like it was a deadly accusation. “Don’t laugh at me. This is a process.”
His lips twitched. He didn’t answer. Just watched me like I was the most confusing, ridiculous, fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
I slammed the bathroom door shut behind me, muttering something about mascara and deodorant emergencies.
I stood in front of my suitcase like it had personally wronged me. Clothes spilled out in a jumble of “maybe this” and “absolutely not.” I wasn’t sure what to wear for a morning at a hockey rink—especially not with Nikolai, especially not after kissing him like I was auditioning for a rom-com reboot. I wanted to look good. For him. Which was ridiculous. Completely uncalled for. Totally against the rules of pretending this wasn’t a slow-motion emotional avalanche.
Still, my brain betrayed me by offering flashes of that kiss. The way his lips moved against mine. The way he didn’t say anything—just kissed me again to shut me up. I blushed so hard my ears burned, then immediately reached for my hairbrush to try to distract myself. Cool girlfriends probably didn’t panic over borrowed hoodies and soft-mouthed kisses before sunrise. Noted. I was not a cool girlfriend. I was a tornado in mascara.
Eventually, I settled on a simple long sleeve tee, a cozy cardigan, and my favorite pair of high-waisted jeans—the kind that hugged all the right places and made me feel like I had my life halfway together. It was casual, cute, and warm enough for the rink. I tried not to overthink it… but let’s be honest. I overthought everything. And today? I was about to walk into Nikolai’s world—his teammates, his sport, his space. I just hoped I didn’t trip over my own glittery nerves in the process.
Chapter 12
Nikolai
The locker room was a circus. Asher stood shirtless in front of the mirror, dabbing eye black on like he was painting war stripes, muttering something about “aura defense” and “channeling primal rage.”
Kellen was upside down on the bench, legs hanging over the top, scrolling through his phone like the blood rush to his head was part of his morning routine. “Hey, hey,” he called out. “Who’s got my Sour Patch Kids? Don’t lie. I’ll smell your guilt.”
Weston just leaned against his stall with that slow, lazy grin of his. “You’re all exhausting,” he said, unwrapping tape like it was a cigar. “And yet, this is the highlight of my week.”
“Because you’re a sociopath,” Kellen replied cheerfully.
“Incorrect,” Weston said, eyes glinting. “I’m just more evolved than the three of you feral raccoons.”
Asher turned dramatically, towel around his neck like a scarf, brandishing his stick like a saber. “Speak for yourself, I am a goddamn sea captain of violence.”
“Sea captains don’t skate,” I muttered without looking up, lacing my skates tight. “They sink.”
Asher threw a sock at me. “Blasphemy, Reaper!”
I let it hit me. Didn’t even flinch. My reward was Weston’s low chuckle and Kellen’s golf clap from upside down.
That was the balance. They talked. I smirked. They set fires. I made sure the flames didn’t spread too far.
I sat at my stall, methodical as ever. The locker room swirled around me in chaos—jokes, slams of locker doors, the crinkling of tape being yanked from rolls—but I shut it all out. Pulled on my base layer, flexed my fingers. My jersey hung next to me like armor waiting to be claimed. My routine didn’t change. I didn’t rush, didn’t speak. Just worked.
I grabbed the roll of white cloth tape from my bag and pulled my stick across my lap. The blade was already clean—I’d scraped the last remnants of the old wrap off the night before. I began at the toe, wrapping it tight and smooth, overlapping each pass with the precision of a surgeon. This part always steadied me. Ritual, control, clarity. The room could burn around me, but I’d still get the toe curve perfect.
