Weston leans in, whispering, “Mother hen.”
Kai’s glare sharpens.
Weston lifts both hands. “Done. I’m done.”
Asher’s voice stays calm. “We’ve got her, Kai.”
Kai’s jaw tightens, but he moves to the bleachers like he’s setting up surveillance. My chest twists. Annoyance, yes.
But also…comfort.
I hate that I need comfort.
Weston claps again—quieter this time. “Okay. Skates on.”
I lace up slowly.
One loop. Pull tight. Breathe.
Weston is beside me, lacing hockey skates with frantic energy, like patience is a personal insult. “So. Are you a rink rat or a secret Olympic prodigy?”
“Neither,” I say.Not anymore, anyway. Not since believing a lie cost me everything. Not sincehim.
Weston’s eyes widen. “Humble. Incredible.”
Asher sits on my other side, calm and methodical, like he’s in control of his body at all times.
Which is…annoying.
Weston launches onto the ice like he’s been shot out of a cannon and almost eats it immediately.
I freeze instinctively.
Weston catches himself, grinning. “I meant to do that.”
Asher glides out after him with humiliating grace. Of course he does.
And then I see Grayson.
He’s stepping onto the ice near the far boards—hood up, hands in his pockets like he’d rather disappear into the walls than be perceived. Which is an impressive choice for a guy who looks like that.
His dark hair peaks out beneath a beanie; his blue eyes framed by dark lashes scan around the rink. He isn’t joining the chaos. He’s staying along the edge. Present, but not approaching.
Like he’s doing math, reminding himself of a rule.The one Kai warned everyone about without warningme. The one who offered me a bagel and then pretended it wasn’t a big deal.
My heart rate starts increasing, and I turn away quickly, pushing into a wider arc.
I’m not doing this for anyone else, I’m doing this forme.
Weston skates up beside me, too close, because personal space isn’t in his vocabulary. “Okay. Show me something.”
“I’m not?—”
“Only if you want,” he says, and the softness in his voice is strange coming from someone who usually sounds like an air horn. “Something that makes you feel like you.”
That lands in my chest like a soft punch.
I swallow hard, then nod. I pick a line on the ice and push. Harder this time. Cleaner. Crossovers come back like musclememory. My edges bite. My hips turn. My lungs burn in a good way. The rink falls away, the noise fading along with it. It’s just ice and movement and the part of me that has always been able to speak through my body when words get stuck.
