Page 114 of Lose You Twice

17

KAI

Imake it twelve steps before I have to stop.

I stop because my hands are shaking.

I flex my fingers once, then again, standing in the concrete hallway outside the laundry room with the door shut behind me. The rink is quieter now, but my pulse is still loud enough to make up the difference.

I kissed her.

After 1,267 days, I kissed her with my hand in her hair and her back against a washing machine, and she kissed me back like she’d been carrying the same ache I have.

My ribs tighten until breathing takes work.

I should be panicking, but instead, I feel something worse.

Relief.

It moves through me slow and dangerous, like every part of me that learned how to operate without her has been overruled by the simple fact that her mouth was finally on mine again, and neither of us was sorry.

I press my palms against my thighs and make myself inhale.

One.

Two.

Three.

Get it together.

I am still the captain. Still in the rink. Still surrounded by teammates, coaches, staff, and the exact kind of gossip Wren is terrified of becoming. A door opens down the hall.

Weston steps out of the lounge area. He spots me and stops, his eyes narrowing. “Did you not hear me yelling your name?”

“I did. I was coming,” I say, straightening back up.

Asher appears behind him, fully dressed, hair still damp, expression already exhausted by the conversation. “Are we going yet or what?”

These guys get hangrier than anyone else I know.

Asher’s gaze shifts to me, and his brow lifts slightly. He notices too much for someone who says so little. It’s annoying. Useful during games, but annoying everywhere else.

“You good?” he asks.

No.

“Yeah.”

Weston grins. “Liar.”

I move past them. “Let’s just go.”

“That wasn’t denial,” Weston calls after me.

Asher says something low to him, probably an attempt at shutting him up, and I keep walking before Weston decides to become a detective. He would be terrible at it, but terrible doesn’t mean ineffective. Half of Weston’s emotional intelligence seems accidental, which somehow makes it harder to defend against.

I grab my bag from my stall before we head toward the parking lot, where Grayson is leaning against his truck on the phone. There is a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, which means he’s probably talking to my sister. He ends the call as we get closer, his eyes scanning over my face.