When I’m close enough, I can hear the older man saying, “Skill like yours is rare. Scouts love a young man who carries himself the right way.”
Grayson nods. “Thank you, sir.”
The man leans in like he’s telling a secret. “You’ll be at the next level. We’re proud to have you representing the program.”
Proud.
A word that sounds warm until it starts feeling like a weight. Grayson’s jaw is locked. I step into his periphery. His gaze flicks to me, and the change is immediate—like a pressure valve loosening, just enough.
“Harlow,” he says quietly.
The older man turns and smiles wider when he sees me. “And you must be Mercer’s sister.”
My chest tightens, but I keep my face neutral. “Yeah. Hi.”
“We love having family around,” he says, too loud, too cheerful. “These boys are doing great things. It’s a shame Owen isn’t here to see how far you’ve come, Grayson. He’d be very proud of you, son.”
“Thanks again, sir,” Grayson says, but his eyes stay on me instead of him, and I can see the war raging within them, the stiffness in his posture that seems to be taking over his entire body. I tilt my head slightly toward the hallway.
Air?
Grayson’s eyelid twitches, and I take that as a yes. I let my mouth move before my brain can talk me out of it.
“Speaking of family,” I say, soft but clear, “Kai asked me to find you.”
“Right,” he says, extending a hand to the older man. “Thank you for coming, but if you’ll excuse us.”
The donor’s smile never falters. “Of course. Good luck with the rest of your season.”
Grayson steps away. I turn with him, guiding us toward the hallway before the room can swallow him again. We don’t speak until the noise drops behind us. The second we’re out of the main space, Grayson exhales like he’s been holding his breath.His shoulders relax an inch, and he drags a hand over the back of his neck, leaning his shoulder into the wall.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice rough.
I shrug like my heart isn’t pounding. “You looked like you were a couple of seconds away from swaying on the spot.”
A flicker crosses his face, almost humor.
“I was considering it.”
We walk a little farther down the corridor, where the lights are dimmer and the air is cooler. The rink hum sits beneath everything like a familiar heartbeat, and there’s an exit sign glowing red at the end of the hall. Grayson stares at it for a second too long, then he looks away as if he has to in order not to rush toward it and escape.
I stop a few feet from him, keeping my distance the way he keeps space between us when I need it. For a moment, we just stand there. Muffled laughter spills into the hall from the event, random people filing in and out. Grayson doesn’t move. His breathing is controlled, but I can see the tension still present in his jaw.
“You don’t like these things,” I say carefully.
“No,” he answers. “I don’t.”
“What’s the worst part?” I ask, because my curiosity is a living thing, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t have it. I want to know him more.
His eyes flick to mine. “Being told who I am.”
“By people who don’t know you,” I add quietly, nodding my head in understanding.
“Yeah, exactly like that. They think that just because I wear a jersey and they get to see me play on the ice, that it means they know me. But they don’t. They don’t care to take the time to either.”
I hesitate, then say what my brain has been circling for days.
“I don’t like that they do that to you.”
