Page 87 of Lose You Twice

Professional, but it also feels fake now.

I remember what Kai’s heartbeat sounds like beneath my ear. I know he reaches for me in his sleep.

At the dining room entrance, he glances back.

It lasts barely a second. Still, one look can carry more weight than a touch when you’re already ruined enough to understand it.

Sadly for me, Kai still holds every shred of my broken heart in his hands.

13

KAI

By the time we get to the rink for morning skate, I’ve replayed waking up with Wren against me so many times that I’m starting to hate myself.

It wasn’t even anything.

That is the worst part.

Nothing happened. No lines were crossed. We fell asleep on opposite sides of a king bed because the hotel was falling apart, the storm was doing its best to bury us in sleet, and I was too stubborn to admit sleeping on the floor before a game was stupid.

Then I woke up with her half on my chest and my arm around her waist, like my body had spent the night making decisions my head was too careful to make.

And for one second, it was perfect.

That’s the problem.

I know what good feels like. Good is a clean faceoff win. Good is a two-goal lead with forty seconds left. Good is a workout when every rep lands right, and my brain shuts up for long enough to let me breathe.

Perfect is Wren’s cheek against my chest, her hand curled in my shirt, her hair tickling my jaw while she sleeps like she trusts me even after everything we’ve been through.

I don’t know what to do with perfect.

So I do what I know.

I tape my stick, then I redo it because the first wrap is uneven.

Grayson watches from the next stall, his skates half-laced. “That’s the second time.”

I sigh. “It wasn’t flat enough the first time.”

I pull the tape tighter and focus on the blade. Clean edge, smooth overlap, no fraying. Something I can control.

Across the locker room, Coleson laughs loudly at something one of the freshmen says, then shoves the kid’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. Not enough to be obvious. Enough that I clock it.

“Richards,” I say.

His head turns. “What?”

“Easy.”

His mouth flattens. “It was a joke.”

“Then make it funny.”

A few guys go quiet. Coleson holds my stare for half a second longer than he should, then shrugs and looks away. The freshman mutters something about being fine, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.

Another thing to handle later. Just what I need.