But I don’t.
Not here, with Weston already vibrating with the need to make my suffering a full team effort. Kai sees my hesitation anyway, because Kai sees everything. His eyes flick to my bag, then back to my face. There’s no accusation there. Just the calm, assessing look he uses on the ice when he’s trying to decide whether you’re about to make a smart play or a selfish one.
And maybe that’s the problem. Because I’m not sure anymore.
Kai stands, finished unlacing his skates, already peeling off the upper layers of gear. “Party at Carter’s tonight. Logan says it’s gonna be insane.”
Weston perks up instantly, exhaustion forgotten. “Football house?”
“Yeah,” Kai says. “Brooks also said half the girls’ basketball team is going.”
Weston’s eyes light up. “Say less.”
Asher sighs, already looking tired. “You know we will have homework.”
“We always have homework,” Weston counters. “But it’s Friday night, and we only have our youth once. And also, Hale—you need to socialize with humans who aren’t wearing hockey equipment.”
“I socialize,” Asher says, deadpan.
“Team meetings don’t count.”
“They absolutely count.”
Kai’s gaze lands on me, voice cutting through the bickering. Not sharp. Not loud. Just final.
“You gonna come, Bennett?”
I shrug, aiming for casual. “Maybe.”
Kai stares at me for a beat too long, and I can practically see him doing the math. Friday night. No game tomorrow. Yet he knows the chances of me going to another party this year are slim to none—especially at the football house and hosted by Carter Hayes.
Kai doesn’t make me give him an answer. He just nods and heads for the showers like a man filing it away for later. Captain Mercer doesn’t interrogate you in public. He waits until he gets you alone to pounce. And the worst part is?—
I know—know—he already knows exactly what I’ll be doing tonight.
Not Carter’s.
Not the football house.
I’ll be in my room, lights off, phone in my hand, waiting for a username to light up my screen. Waiting for the only person who doesn’t expect anything from me to show up anyway.
2
GRAYSON
After sitting through classes and sneaking in another weight session, I’m too exhausted to hit the grocery store. So I swing by the dining hall, shovel something vaguely edible into my system, and tell myself that counts as being a functioning adult.
By the time I park my truck next to Kai’s and drag my bag toward our apartment, my body is running on fumes and habit.
The place Kai and I share is exactly what you’d expect from two senior hockey players: clean-ish, barely decorated, furnished with hand-me-down couches, and the kind of minimalist practicality that says,We spend money on skates, not throw pillows.
It works.
Kai’s always home first on Fridays, and sure enough, the second I open the door, he’s wiping down counters that were already clean.
“You’re stress-cleaning again,” I say, toeing the door shut behind me and dropping my bag by the entry.
“I’m cleaning,” he corrects without looking up.
