Kai watches me for a beat too long.
“What?” I ask.
Instead of barkingbe normallike he’s issuing a penalty, Kai exhales slowly and tilts his head.
“Just…don’t treat her like a project,” he says, his voice even. “She’s been here a month, and she’s still adjusting. Loud rooms are a lot for her.” He doesn’t say the rest, but I hear it anyway.
“I’m not going to be weird,” I say. “If Weston is coming, I’m the least of your concerns.”
Kai’s expression doesn’t change, but his tone softens a notch. “Good. And if youdosay something stupid, just—own it. Don’t make her do the work of smoothing it over.”
That’s Kai’s version of tenderness: instruction that protects the person he loves.
I nod. “Got it.”
He nods once like the conversation is done, and then, because he can’t stop himself from building guardrails, he adds, “Also…she’s off-limits.”
“Jesus, Kai.” I set my mug down with a soft thunk. “I know. It’s not like I have the time for girls right now anyway.”
“I’m not accusing you,” he says, and for once it sounds like exactly that. “I’m just…reminding you to help me keep everyone respectful.” There it is. Captain Mercer. Team-first. Optics. Boundaries.
“I don’t need a reminder,” I mutter.
Kai’s jaw ticks. “Good.”
He plates breakfast, like that settles it. It does, technically. And it doesn’t. Because off-limits isn’t new. Kai’s been laying that law down since freshman year, long before Harlow ever set foot on campus. But now she’s actually here. In his world. Inours.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I pretend I don’t hear it, but Kai does. He always does. His gaze flicks to the phone, then back to me. “You sleeping at all?”
“Sure,” I lie. Kai doesn’t call me on my shit or ask again; he just takes a bite of eggs and files the lie away with the rest of my bad decisions.
The rink fixes my head enough to stop thinking about anything that isn’t directly in front of me. Cold air. Bright lights. The smell of tape and rubber and ice—familiar in a way nothing else is. The boards are scuffed with a thousand battles. The glass is marked with fingerprints and puck smears. This place makes the perfect kind of sense, at least to me.
Coach Graves runs us hard. Neutral-zone transitions, regroups, entries at speed, and then battle drills that turn your legs into jelly and your lungs into sandpaper.
Kai is sharp and clean—physical when he needs to be. He shuts lanes down before they open and makes grown men regret their decisions with a shoulder to the chest and a stick lift so smooth it’s almost disrespectful.
Weston chirps through it all like his vocal cords are sponsored by muscle fatigue. Opposite of Weston, Asher doesn’t talk much, but when he does, the whole rink leans in. Calm. Controlled. Steady. The kind of guy who probably sleeps eight hours and drinks water like it’s his religion.
Me? I’m a winger skating on muscle memory and caffeine, running on two gears: go and go harder. It works. For the most part.
Coach cycles us through another drill—quick touches, short passes, release in stride. The kind of thing that looks simpleuntil you’re doing it at top speed with your heart trying to escape your ribcage.
I take a pass off my backhand, settle it, and rip it top corner, slipping past Asher. The puck snaps twine, and for half a second, my brain goes blessedly quiet. Then I look up and see Coach watching like he’s deciding whether I’m a weapon or a liability today. No praise. Just a nod that saysbaseline is expected and excellence is rented by the hour.
By the time practice ends, my shirt is soaked, and my body feels like it got run over by a Zamboni. In the locker room, we strip out of our gear and head for the showers. Right as I’m toweling off my hair, Kai stands, completely dressed and ready to go.
“Barbecue at two,” he says. “At our place.” The room groans in unison because free food is the only thing hockey players respect more than sleep.
Weston sits up instantly. “Your place?”
Kai nods.
Weston’s eyes go feral. “Say less.”
Asher’s expression stays neutral. “Who’s cooking?”
Kai’s eyes flick to me, a smirk taking over his face. “Bennett.”
