Left. Right. Pull. Wrap. Lock.
My fingers are steady. My brain isn’t. Not yet.
I step onto the ice.
The first glide is always the best part. The way the cold catches you. The way your blades bite. The way the sound of your own movement becomes the only thing in the world. I push off, slow at first, letting my body settle into a rhythm. One lap. Two. The air is sharp in my lungs, clean and quiet.
Then I start doing what I came here to do.
Edges. Crossovers. Three-turns. A spiral that makes my hamstrings complain.
I don’t jump anymore. Not really. Not the way I used to—when I was younger and braver and my body wasn’t something my brain tried to control with numbers and punishment. When my muscles could support the movements.
But I still move. Still let the ice take the words I can’t say and turn them into something that looks like grace from the outside. It’s not grace. It’s survival.
I’m midway through a set of footwork when the door at the far end of the rink opens. The sound echoes in the empty building, too loud. My stomach tightens instantly, and I slow, coasting toward the boards, instinctively mapping the new variable.
A figure steps onto the walkway. Tall. Broad shoulders. Hoodie. Hair slightly damp, like he showered and still couldn’t sit still. Even from a distance, I recognize him immediately.
Grayson Bennett.
Of course.
The universe seems to have a sense of humor, and it hates me personally.
He doesn’t see me right away. He’s looking down at his phone, moving with the tired, restless energy of someone who doesn’t know what to do with his own skin.
I push off again, telling myself I don’t care. He can exist in the same building. I am capable of being a normal person around my brother’s teammate.
I am.
I skate past the center line, head down, focusing on my edges.
Then Grayson’s gaze lifts, and he sees me. It’s immediate—the way his posture shifts is subtle but real. Like he didn’t expect anyone else to be here.
His eyes track me as I glide toward the far end. He doesn’t stare in a weird, pervy way. It’s more like…he’s reading me, trying to understand this pull, in the same way I am.
I hate that I notice.
I also hate that my body does that stupid static thing again, the one it did at the barbecue when he drifted close enough for my nervous system to register him.
I circle back, keeping distance, trying to pretend he’s just another person and not…him.
Grayson moves closer to the boards, hands in his hoodie pocket. He waits until I slow near the bench area before he speaks.
“Didn’t know anyone had the rink this early,” he says, his voice still carrying a hint of sleep in it.
“I didn’t know anyone else would be here either,” I reply.
The bluntness comes out sharper than I meant it to. Like I’m accusing him of trespassing. But that’s the problem with my mouth when I’m tired or overstimulated—it jumps without checking if the landing is safe.
Grayson’s mouth twitches, like he’s amused but not going to call me on it.
“Fair,” he says. “I can leave.”
The offer makes me blink. Most guys don’t offer to leave. Most guys take up space and assume you’ll adjust around them.
“I didn’t say that,” I reply quickly.
