Page 102 of Lose You Twice

His eyes drop to my hand. “Something like that.”

My pulse trips.

Donnelly’s voice booms from the back. “Mercer, unless your pregame routine involves flirting with the inventory, get out of my room.”

My face heats instantly.

Kai keeps his face neutral, but I can see the smile he’s trying his best to hide. “Yes, sir.”

I turn back to the drawer and pretend to count the rolls of tape while he walks away. I make it to seven before I lose track completely.

Donnelly appears beside me and lets out an overdramatic sigh. “I don’t want to know.”

On the bright side, working a game means that there isn’t time to spiral properly.

By warm-ups, the rink is loud enough that it vibrates in my chest. The student section is already filling in, faces painted, signs up, everyone buzzing with the particular kind of optimism that happens before anyone has had a chance to be disappointed.

Harlow finds me near the tunnel twenty minutes before puck drop, wrapped in a PCU hoodie and carrying nachos, which makes me beyond happy to see.

“You survived,” she says.

“Barely. Weston tried to name me Laundry Duchess.”

She considers this. “I mean, it could be worse.”

“How?”

“Skate wench?”

I stare at her.

She pops a chip into her mouth and shrugs. “You asked.”

I glance toward the ice, where Grayson is skating backward near the blue line. Harlow follows my gaze, and her face softens so dramatically I almost accuse her of becoming a greeting card.

“Gross,” I say.

She smiles. “I love him.”

“Still gross.”

“You’ll understand someday.”

My eyes snap to hers. She looks anything but innocent as she pops another chip into her mouth.

Her smile goes smug, then fades a little when she studies my face. “You okay?”

My first instinct is to lie, but I’m tired of everyone asking that question and tired of myself answering it wrong.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Harlow steps closer. “About Kai?”

I look back at the ice. Kai is skating a warm-up loop, smooth and fast, jersey dark against the white ice. He looks good out there. Not because he’s perfect, though he is annoyingly close when he plays, but because the ice makes sense under him. Like it was built to hold all the parts of him that don’t fit anywhere else.

“He’s everywhere,” I say.

Harlow doesn’t answer right away.