I stare into my coffee and try not to think about the rink. Try not to think about Harlow on the ice, the way she looked like she belonged there more than she belonged anywhere else. I try even harder not to think about the fact that I noticed. Because thinking about her is a slippery slope, and I’ve got enough slopes in my life already.
The weight room smells like metal and sweat and the kind of ambition that makes you hate yourself a little.
While Sundays are left up to each player, Monday lifts are mandatory. Coach Graves believes rest days are for weak people and the devil. He says things likemaintenance is a mindset,andif you’re not building, you’re breaking,which is probably why none of us know how to relax like normal human beings.
The team filters in one by one—some half awake, some coming after their first classes, all complaining. Weston arrives with a smoothie and the aura of a man who has personally been wronged by existence.
Asher is already there, of course—calm, controlled, stretching like someone who treats his body like a temple herespects. There’s a steady discipline in him that makes the rest of us look feral by comparison.
Kai spots me and jerks his chin toward the squat rack.Partner up.
We lift in rhythm. Spot. Rack. Swap. Minimal talking and efficient misery. That’s our language.
Weston drifts over between sets, eyes bright with chaos. “So, Bennett. How’s your late-night mystery friend today?”
I glare at him. “Don’t start.”
He grins wider. “That’s not an answer.”
Asher wipes his hands on his towel and looks at Weston like he’s a puzzle piece from the wrong box. “Cooper. Leave him alone.”
Weston puts a hand on his chest. “Iamleaving him alone. I’m just speaking near him.”
“That’s still annoying,” Asher says.
Kai loads another plate onto the bar like he’s trying to load the subject out of existence. “Focus.”
Weston pouts. “Mercer hates romance.”
Kai’s eyes cut to him. “Mercer hates stupidity.”
Weston spreads his arms. “Then you hate me.”
Kai doesn’t deny it, and Weston’s mouth drops open like he’s been wounded. I laugh under my breath, which is exactly how Weston wins, by making you forget you’re exhausted for half a second.
That’s the thing about our team. The loudness, the chirping, the constant nonsense.
It’s annoying.
It’s also…home.
Found family isn’t a metaphor when you spend every day bleeding and sweating with the same guys. When you learn their tells on the ice and off it. When you can tell by the way Asher goes quiet that he’s locked in, or by the way Weston gets louderwhen he’s hiding a bad day, or by the way Kai’s voice turns sharp when he’s scared.
They’re my people.
Which makes what I’m doing—talking every night to a stranger—feel like a betrayal.
And also like relief.
Both things can be true.
After lift, we hit the dining hall like a pack of wolves. Weston insists on narrating the buffet line like he’s hosting a cooking show. “And here we have…chicken that tastes like heartbreak.” Asher ignores him. Kai eats like he’s fueling a machine—protein, carbs, water. Efficient. I sit across from them, stabbing at my food, trying to be normal.
My phone buzzes on the table.
I don’t look immediately. I look two seconds later, because again, no self-control.
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