Grayson’s mouth quirks. “It’s okay to be confident. I respect it.”
I exhale, annoyed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m—” I wave a hand vaguely. “Full of myself.”
Grayson studies me for a beat, then shrugs. “You don’t seem full of yourself.”
My throat tightens. Because what I do seem like is something I work very hard to keep hidden. And I don’t know what it means that he can see around my defenses so easily.
I turn away, skating another lap to burn off the weirdness. When I come back, Grayson is still there, leaning on the boards, breathing hard like he pushed himself just enough to feel alive.
He glances up at the wall clock. “You come here a lot?”
I hesitate.
Questions feel dangerous.
Answers feel permanent.
“Sometimes,” I say.
Grayson nods like he’ll take what I give and not ask for more. “It’s a good place for it.”
“For what?”
He looks at me, expression unreadable. Then, softer, “For quiet.”
My chest tightens again.
Because yes.
Because quiet is the only thing that makes my brain stop trying to eat me alive.
I nod once.
Grayson’s gaze flicks to my face. “You okay?”
There it is. The question everyone asks, like it has an easy answer. The question that never feels simple.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Grayson’s eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn’t buy it. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he says, “If you’re not, you don’t have to tell me.”
The words land like permission. I don’t know what to do with permission. So I default to sarcasm, because sarcasm is armor.
“Wow,” I say. “You’re dangerously emotionally intelligent for a hockey player.”
Grayson snorts. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
The rink door opens again at the far end—someone in a jacket, a staff member maybe. The sound echoes. My bodyreacts instantly, tightening, bracing for the environment to shift. Grayson notices, but he doesn’t comment. He just watches the door, then looks back at me.
“You want me to leave?” he asks, low.
