38
HARLOW
My room is still dark when I wake up, my body tense from head to toe, like it’s bracing for impact. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, but my nervous system doesn’t care about alarms.
Game day.
I lie there listening as the air hums quietly through the vent, trying to convince myself this is just another Tuesday. Coffee. Getting dressed. Maybe some laundry that I’ve been slacking on. Maybe a walk.
Anything but the image that keeps flashing behind my eyes like a warning sign.
Tyler Rushton. The arena lights. The sound of skates cutting clean lines on ice. My stomach drops the way it did when I was fifteen and learned that wanting someone could turn into a weapon.
I roll onto my side and press my face into my pillow, breathing in and out slowly.
In for four. Hold. Out for six.
My body doesn’t fully believe it, but it loosens—just enough.
My phone buzzes. A text. And my chest does that stupid tight-warm thing like my body recognizes him before my brain can decide if I’m allowed to be this happy.
Gray: you awake?
I don’t even pretend to hesitate.
Harlow: Unfortunately.
A pause.
Gray: same.
Gray: i’m already at the rink.
Gray: don’t let your brain bully you today.
I blink at the screen, because I’m not sure how he can say something so simple and have it feel like he just slid a hand under my ribs and held me steady.
Harlow: Are you nervous?
Three dots.
Gray: i’m good.
Gray: how about you? you nervous?
I stare at the question like it’s daring me to be honest.
Harlow: I’m…aware.
He replies immediately.
Gray: ok.
Gray: you don’t have to be brave the whole time.
Gray: just show up.
Gray: i’ll do the rest.
