Grayson killed the engine in the driveway and sat there for a long minute, hands still gripping the wheel. The cab smelled like old coffee and the faint pine air freshener Mia had stuck under the seat weeks ago. Still couldn’t scrub Keaton out of his head. His jaw ached from clenching it the whole drive home. His lips felt swollen. He didn’t want to think about why. He rubbed a hand over his face, muttered a curse, and finally dragged himself inside.
The porch light was on, the one Mia always left for him. Inside, the house was quiet except for the muted sounds of the fridge and the TV playing some cooking show in the living room.
Mia looked up from the couch, legs tucked under her in those gray sweatpants he’d bought her last Christmas, hair in a messy bun. She smiled that easy, tired smile that hit him square in the chest.
“Hey. You’re later than I thought. Gym go okay?”
“Yeah. Got caught up.” The lie came out smooth enough, but it twisted his gut. He dropped his bag by the door with a soft thud and crossed to her, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head. She smelled like the vanilla lotion she always used after her shower. Familiar. Safe. “Long day pushing weights.” He sank onto the couch beside her, close enough that their thighs touched. A chef chopped vegetables at machine-gun speed on the TV. Grayson’s eyes stayed on the screen, but none of it registered.
Mia muted the show after a minute. “Tell me about it. Did you hit that new PR on squats you were talking about?”
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck before he caught himself. “Yeah. Felt good. Spotter was solid.” The words tasted wrong. He changed the subject fast. “How was your day? You get any more unpacking done?”
“Some. Come see.” She stood and tugged him up by the hand. Her palm fit perfectly against his, small and soft. They walked into the kitchen together, and she showed him the plates stacked neatly in the cabinet, a few framed photos already on the open shelf, one from their trip to the lake last summer, both of them sunburned and laughing. “Thought these looked better here. What do you think?”
“Looks great,” he said, meaning it. He pulled out the rest of the dishes from the box on the counter, the cardboard rough under his fingers. The weight of the ceramic grounded him for a second. Just another evening unpacking boxes. Once, that would’ve been enough.
They dragged another box into the living room while they waited for takeout. Tacos, their usual. Extra cilantro for him, no onions. Mia stole chips from his side when the food arrived, and they ate sitting on the floor between half-unpacked boxes, foil wrappers spread out, grease on their fingers. She talked about the coffee shop two blocks over, how the light in the living room was perfect for her plants, how the neighborhood already felt like it could work. He nodded, chewed, laughed when she flicked his arm. Small stuff. The kind that had carried them through moves and call-ups and long seasons before.
“You’re quiet tonight,” she said halfway through, tilting her head. “Camp nerves kicking in?”
“A little.” He wiped his hands on a napkin. “New team. Lot to prove.”
Mia stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind as he rinsed a stray glass in the sink. “You’re gonna kill it. You always do. And Wichita’s lucky to have you. I’m proud of you, Gray. This move… it’s a big step, but we’re doing it right. Together. Remember that first apartment in college? We had like three boxes total and thought we were set for life.”
He managed a grin. “Yeah. And the bed broke the first week.”
“Worth it.” She laughed, low and warm, and for a second the guilt eased. She knew every version of him. The routines before games, the stupid superstitions, the way he liked life to stay predictable. She’d packed most of their life while he chased workouts.
She said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. She’d always backed him. Through college. Through bus leagues. Through every call-up and every disappointment. Her cheek rested against his back while the water ran over his hands, and guilt twisted a little tighter. This was what he’d signed up for, the life they’d planned together across late-night talks and long drives. The apartment they’d picked because it had good light for her plants. The future that had seemed so solid.
“Thanks, babe,” he managed, drying his hands and turning to hug her properly. She fit against him the same way she always had. But tonight his arms felt mechanical, like he was going through the motions while his mind kept drifting back to the truck, the secluded spot, the way Keaton had looked at him like he saw exactly who Grayson was and wanted more of it anyway.
They cleaned up the wrappers and kept going. A lamp. Throw pillows. Mia held pieces of a small shelf while he tightened the screws, her cursing softly when the wrench slipped. Normal. Lived-in. The kind of night that made the new apartment feel like theirs. He told himself this was enough. This was supposed to be enough.
Later, when the dishes were done and the lights were low, Mia turned toward him on the couch. The show had ended, and the room felt smaller, quieter. She cupped his face with both hands, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones, and kissed him softly. Then deeper. Her mouth was warm and familiar, tasting faintly of the lime from her taco. Grayson kissed her back, trying. He really did. One hand on her waist, the other sliding up her back under her shirt to feel the smooth skin there.
Something didn’t land. Her touch was gentle, loving. It didn’t pull him under the way that rougher grip had. With Keaton there’d been no room to think. Just obey. Her lips were soft. Keaton’s hadn’t been. Mia kissed him like she loved him. Keaton had kissed him like he’d already decided what Grayson wanted.
He pulled back after a minute, resting his forehead against hers. His heart was pounding, but not for the right reasons. “Sorry. I’m just… really tired tonight. Long session.”
Mia searched his eyes for a second, concern flickering there. She didn’t push. Instead she brushed her thumb along his jaw, soft and understanding. “It’s okay. Big changes. I get it. We don’t have to do anything. Let’s just go to bed.”
They brushed their teeth side by side in the small bathroom. The mirror showed them together, her in an old t-shirt of his, him still in a pair of sweats. She looked at him with nothing but love and patience, humming a little tune while she flossed. He caught his own eyes in the mirror and looked away first.
In bed, the sheets were cool and clean. Mia curled against his side quickly, her head on his chest, one leg thrown over his. Her breathing evened out fast, the way it always did when she felt safe. Grayson stared at the ceiling, one arm behind his head, the other resting lightly on her back. The fan whirred overhead, pushing air across his skin.
The guilt stayed put. But underneath it, something else shifted. Frustration. He hated how his body still buzzed with the memory of rougher hands and a voice that cut straight through the noise. Hated how part of him already wanted to hear it again. He shifted carefully, not wanting to wake her. No. He wasn’t going back. It was a mistake. He’d skip the gym, lock back into hockey, into this. He clung to the thought anyway.
Sleep came in broken pieces. Every time he drifted off, Keaton’s voice found him again. He woke before dawn, throat dry, and slipped out to the kitchen for water. He stood at the sink staring at the dark street outside. Their new neighborhood. Their fresh start.
The next thing he knew, pale morning light was leaking through the blinds. It felt too early. Grayson’s eyes felt gritty when his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He grabbed it fast, heart kicking up before he even saw the screen. Not Keaton. Of course not. They hadn’t traded numbers. No way to reach out even if he wanted to, which he shouldn’t.
It was a mandatory team group text from the Hawks organization.
Training camp start date moved up. Report to facility 8:00 AM sharp today. Full attendance required. No exceptions. Gear up. Leadership meeting at 9.
Grayson sat up slowly, the sheet pooling around his waist. He ready the message twice before it sank in. Today. Now. No gym. No chance to see Keaton. He didn’t even get the chance to keep his promise.
Mia stirred beside him, pushing hair out of her face. “What is it, babe?”
“Camp,” he said, voice gravelly. “They moved it up. Today. Eight sharp.”
She blinked awake fully, sitting up too. The strap of her tank top slipped off one shoulder. “Wow. Okay. Well… guess camp’s starting.” She rubbed his back in slow circles, the way she did when he was keyed up before games. “You got this. Coffee? I can throw something together quick.”
“Yeah, thanks,” he said quietly, already swinging his legs out of bed. His feet hit the cold floor. Should’ve been a relief. A clean break. Back to normal. Something heavy sat in his chest. He wanted to see him again. The realization scared the shit out of him. “Coffee sounds good. Thanks.”
His hands shook a little as he pulled on his sweats and a clean Hawks shirt from the drawer. The fabric felt stiff, new. Mia moved around the kitchen in her robe, humming under her breath as she started the coffee maker. The familiar sounds, spoon clinking, water running, should have grounded him. Instead they felt distant, like he was watching his own life through fogged glass.
He joined her, leaning against the counter while the machine gurgled. She slid a mug his way, black just how he liked it. “Nervous?”
“A bit.” He took a sip, the heat burning down his throat. “Didn’t expect it this fast.”
“You’ll be great. Text me when you’re done for the day?” She stepped in close, hugging him around the middle. Her head tucked perfectly under his chin. “I love you, Gray. We’ve got this new chapter.”
“I love you too,” he said, and meant it. But the words felt heavier today, weighed down by everything unsaid.
He finished the coffee, grabbed his gear bag, and kissed her goodbye at the door. She waved from the porch as he backed out, looking small and supportive in the morning light. Grayson drove toward the facility with both hands tight on the wheel. The city streets blurred past. His mind kept circling back anyway. Keaton’s voice. The hand on the back of his neck. The way one quiet “good boy” had silenced every thought in his head.
He tightened his grip on the wheel and drove toward the rink anyway. Whatever waited for him there, he could already feel it coming.
Notes: This is my first story I've done here. I plotted out a ten chapter Part 1 then realized the middle is a little too slow-burn plot for perhaps the audience (not enough sex!). I'm gonna finish out the story and hope you guys enjoy it. It's a learning curve for future stories! Any feedback welcome!
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