1
GRAYSON
I’m not saying I’d commit crimes for eight hours of sleep…but I’m also notnotsaying that.
Shit, I’d do some very questionable things for even a few uninterrupted hours.
If Coach Graves asks why I’m moving like a sloth on skates today, I’ll tell him I slept like a baby. I’ll even smile when I say it, because lying is a skill set you pick up when you’ve spent your entire life being expected to perform on command.
But the truth is, I spent four hours staring at my ceiling, then gave up and started stretching in the dark like some kind of haunted, overachieving yogi. Because that’s what happens when you’re a dedicated athlete with an off switch that’s apparently been recalled by the manufacturer.
According to the clock above the hallway to our locker room, it’s just after seven in the morning. I’m running on two broken hours of sleep and enough caffeine to power a small country.
By definition, I should feel wrecked.
Instead, I’m wired because my brain won’t stop replaying the message I got around two a.m. from the girl I’ve been talking to for the last few weeks.
I don’t know her name. I don’t know her face. I don’t even know if she likes hockey or hates it or has ever set foot inside this rink.
I just know she’s started showing up in the quiet spaces between things.
And that’s dangerous.
Honestly? I think about her a lot more than I should. Especially when I need to focus.
“Bennett!” Coach Graves’ voice cracks across the rink like a whip, jarring me out of my head. “You planning to skate today, or you just gonna stand there looking pretty?”
A voice slides past me, amused and entirely too awake for this time of morning. “Who says he can’t do both?”
Weston Cooper. Our left winger and the human embodiment of chaos on skates. He grins at me from under his cage, blue eyes bright with nothing good, dirty-blond hair already plastered to his forehead even though practice hasn’t technically started.
Could be from last night. Could be from this morning. With Weston, time is a suggestion.
“Shut up,” I mutter, pushing off the boards.
The ice glides under my blades, cold and clean and honest. It’s the only thing that makes sense most days, even though it’s also been the biggest stressor lately.
Four strides and I’m flying, cold air burning my lungs, the rink waking up around me in a familiar rhythm—the scrape of blades, the slap of pucks, the sharp bite of Coach’s whistle.
Hockey has always been the one thing I believed I could control. The one thing that stayed the same when everything else shifted.
The problem is that control is an illusion.
Scouts. Senior year. The way every mistake suddenly feels like it has my future attached to it like a price tag.
And the way I can’t sleep like a normal person.
“Line up!” Coach barks.
We snap into formation. Weston is already beside me because the man treats personal space like it’s optional.
On my other side is Asher Hale, our goalie. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen him worked up, on the ice or off. Dark hair, dark eyes, and the kind of steady presence that makes everyone else seem like a collection of bad decisions by comparison. He’s a junior this year and an absolute monster in the net.
Behind us—silent as a predator—is Kai Mercer.
My roommate, our star center and team captain. The guy who can silence a locker room with one look and somehow make it feel like it wasyouridea to behave.
His stare catches mine through the cage and holds. He jerks his chin once.
