Kai: proud of you for getting out. want me to bring you breakfast later?
My stomach tightens anyway, because food is complicated, but this version feels like an offer, not a demand.
I inhale slowly.
Harlow: Maybe. I’ll let you know.
A pause.
Kai: ok. text if you need anything.
I shove my phone back into my tote and keep walking toward the rest of my day, still wondering why someone who is basically a stranger seems to make me feel calmer than even being on the ice can.
8
GRAYSON
You’d think my weekend would be used as a recovery period. A reset. A breath. A chance to pretend our bodies aren’t held together by athletic tape, caffeine, and pure spite. But mornings in my world don’t seem to care about what you think you deserve. And neither does my internal clock.
I’m awake at 6:02 a.m. like I’ve got a shift to skate and a coach to disappoint. There is no early practice. No whistle. No ice time with my name on it.
My phone buzzes.
I tell myself I’m not going to look.
I look immediately because my self-control has been pathetic lately.
It’s the team group chat.
Weston: why is monday even real
Weston: who approved this
Asher: It happens every week.
Weston: that feels aggressive
A second later?—
Kai: lift at 10. film at 12. be on time.
Weston replies with a skull emoji, which is honestly his most honest form of communication.
I let the phone drop back onto the mattress and drag a hand over my face.
From the kitchen, I hear a soft clink.
I swear, Kai never takes a breather.
He doesn’t sleep in. He wakes up like he’s already behind schedule, like rest is a luxury he doesn’t trust. Even on light days, he moves with that same quiet urgency he has on the ice—contained, controlled, always prepared for contact.
I push myself out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen.
Kai’s at the counter in a hoodie and sweats, pouring coffee with the focus of a man preparing for war. The overhead light cuts sharp lines across his face, throwing shadows under his eyes he’ll deny exist if anyone points them out.
He glances at me without turning his head. “Good morning.”
“It’s not that good,” I mutter.
