Weston looks delighted anyway. “There it is.”
I hate that it helps. Having someone ridiculous nearby makes the room feel less sharp. Weston starts talking to some of his other teammates and heads back toward the food tables. As he walks away, Grayson drifts closer—careful, not invasive. Like he’s respecting a boundary I didn’t even have to state.
“Surviving?” he asks, low enough that his voice doesn’t add to the noise.
I turn my head. His eyes are lighter than when I first got here, like the open air and daylight softened them.
“Barely,” I admit.
He snorts. “Same.”
I blink. “Same?”
He gestures subtly toward the chaos. “Well, I do live with your brother.”
That gets another small laugh out of me before I can stop it. Grayson’s mouth curves a fraction, like he’s pleased? But he doesn’t make it a thing. We stand there for a second, and I realize something that makes me feel a bit calmer. Grayson Bennett isn’t trying to win me over. He isn’t flirting, like Weston, but I don’t think Grayson is the type. He isn’t looking at me like I’m something to conquer either. He’s just…talking to me like I’m a normal person.
“Weston is…a lot,” I say.
“Yeah,” Grayson agrees, glancing toward him. “Love the guy, but he’s like the Energizer Bunny.”
“But you’re not,” I say before I can stop myself. My bluntness slips out when I’m overwhelmed. My brain edits less. My filter disappears.
Grayson blinks, then shrugs. “I’m always tired. It helps keep me mellow, I guess.”
Something warm sparks in my chest.
I swallow. “Do you want to be here?”
The question isn’t really about the barbecue.
Grayson’s gaze holds mine like he hears the subtext anyway.
“I don’t mind it,” he says. “But I’m not built for crowds.”
He nods toward where I’ve planted myself near the wall. “I see the exit plan building in your head.”
“It’s not an exit strategy,” I say quickly. “It’s…awareness of my surroundings.”
Grayson’s mouth twitches. “Sure.”
I can feel myself about to smile, so I look away fast, focusing on the cold bottle in my hand.
“I’m fine,” I say, even though it’s not an answer to anything.
Grayson doesn’t push. He just tips his chin toward the patio. “If you need a bailout, I can fake a hockey emergency.”
“A hockey emergency,” I repeat.
“Very serious,” he says. “Catastrophic even.”
“What’s catastrophic in hockey terms?”
He grins quick. “Someone taped their stick wrong.”
“That is a crime,” I say automatically.
Grayson nods, dead serious. “Exactly.”
