My chest tightens as soon as we step into the lobby.
Not panic.
Just that automatic body reaction, the one that says: too many eyes, too much noise, too much unknown. Wren sees it instantly. She doesn’t ask if I’m okay. She just steps a little closer—shoulder almost brushing mine—and it’s such a small thing it shouldn’t help. It helps anyway.
We find our seats—just one row up from the glass, near the corner where I can see the bench without feeling like I’m in the middle of everything.
I sit. Exhale.
The jersey hangs heavy on my shoulders like a secret.
Wren leans close. “Okay, so tell me the rules.”
I blink. “Hockey rules?”
“No,” she snorts. “Grayson rules. I know hockey from watching Kai for years.”
My face goes hot. Wren watches me with the kind of amusement that makes me want to shove her into the Zamboni door.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
Wren smiles sweetly. “No, you don’t. Also, you’re wearing his number. You are literally a walking declaration.”
I groan.
Then the arena lights shift. The music bumps. Warm-ups start. And my heart—traitor—finds him without my consent.
Grayson skates onto the ice, and the world narrows.
He’s in full gear, helmet on, cage catching the light. He moves like he belongs to the space in a way I will never understand. Like his body knows the ice is home, and everything else is just where he keeps his stuff.
He circles once, stick tapping the ice. Then his head lifts. And his gaze finds me.
It’s instant.
Not searching. Not scanning, but like he knew exactly where I’d be.
And when he sees the jersey?—
His skating stutters. Not enough that anyone else would notice. Just a fraction. A micro-glitch in the smoothness that tells me his body felt it before his brain could play it cool.
My stomach flips hard. He does one more lap, then angles toward the tunnel.
Wren elbows me. “Oh. He’s coming.”
My pulse spikes.
“Wren—”
“Shh,” she whispers. “This is cinema.”
I barely have time to breathe before Grayson appears at the glass near our section, helmet off now, hair damp at the edges, cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion. He looks up at me and slips through the door, motioning me to come to him.
And the expression on his face is…everything.
Smiling so much that his dimple is on full display, and trying not to look at me like I’m the only thing in the building and failing miserably.
When I make it down to him, I pause as he takes in my outfit, admiring it.
