T H E O G R A Y

THE COLD is the only thing that keeps me grounded.

I exhale, watching the puff of breath disappear into the air as I tighten my grip on my stick. The rink is empty now, the usual noise of my teammates long gone, leaving only the sound of my skates carving into the ice. I thrive in this silence. It's where I push myself the hardest.

The overhead clock reads 8:15 PM-fifteen minutes past closing. Normally, the janitor would be on my ass about leaving, but I convinced him to give me extra time. Said I needed it.

Not a lie.

I shift my weight and launch forward, the smooth glide of my skates a familiar rhythm. The puck moves with me, an extension of my body. I take a shot, watch it slap against the boards, rebound, and chase after it again. Over and over. Fast, controlled, relentless.

My muscles burn, but I ignore it. My body isn't done yet.

I crouch lower, speeding up, pushing past the ache in my legs. I have to be better. Stronger. If I want the draft-if I want to make it-this isn't enough. The extra drills, the solo practice, the exhaustion clinging to my limbs-it's still not enough.

I grip my stick tighter and go again.

8:45 PM

My breathing is heavier now, sweat dampening my shirt beneath my jersey. My hands are cramping, but I still take another slapshot, watching the puck whip into the net.

Better.

I bend down, hands on my knees, catching my breath. I could stop now. Call it a night. But something in me refuses.

Just one more round.

I drag the puck back to center ice, setting up another drill. My shoulders ache, my legs are screaming, but I push forward. My movements are slower now, less sharp, but I force myself to finish.

One more shot. One more push.

9:05 PM

I barely register when my body gives out.

One second, I'm skating. The next, my legs buckle and I hit the ice, the cold biting through my gear. My arms tremble as I push myself up, but my body refuses to listen.

I roll onto my back, chest heaving.

It's over. I'm done.

The rink lights buzz overhead, the only sound aside from my ragged breaths. I close my eyes, feeling the exhaustion settle deep in my bones.

Maybe I overdid it.

Maybe I should care.

But all I can think about is getting back up tomorrow and doing it all over again.

I stare up at the ceiling, blinking against the harsh rink lights. My body is done, but my mind? It's still running, still thinking about every mistake I made tonight. Every missed shot. Every fraction of a second where I was too slow.

I should get up. I should stretch, pack up, go home, and get some damn sleep.

But I don't move.

I let the cold seep into my skin, my chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths. There's something almost peaceful about it-this moment where nothing else exists. No pressure, no expectations. Just me and the ice.

A sharp sound breaks the quiet-a door slamming shut.

"Kid, I gave you extra time, not all night," the janitor calls out. His footsteps echo against the empty stands as he walks toward the rink, shaking his head. "I swear, you hockey players are all the same. Damn stubborn."

I push myself up onto my elbows, wincing at the stiffness in my muscles. "Five more minutes," I say, knowing damn well I'm not getting up anytime soon.

The old man snorts. "Five minutes, my ass. You can barely sit up." He leans against the boards, arms crossed. "Go home before I have to scrape you off the ice."

I sigh, running a hand through my sweat-damp hair. He's right-I've pushed past my limit tonight. I know it. But stopping still feels like failure.

Reluctantly, I shift onto my knees and force myself to stand. My legs are unsteady, my muscles protesting every movement, but I manage to skate toward the exit. The janitor watches with a smirk, clearly amused by my struggle.

"Don't break yourself before the season even starts," he says as I step off the ice. "You think the scouts are gonna be impressed if you show up half-dead?"

I huff out a breath, grabbing my water bottle from the bench. "They'll be impressed if I'm the best."

He lets out a low chuckle. "And what good are you if you're too broken to play?"

I don't have an answer for that.

Instead, I strip off my gloves, feeling the sting of cold air on my overheated skin. My entire body is shaking, exhaustion finally hitting me like a freight train. Still, a part of me wants to lace up again, hit the ice one more time.

But I don't.

I grab my duffel bag, sling it over my shoulder, and nod at the janitor. "See you tomorrow."

He laughs, shaking his head as he walks off. "You kids are crazy."

My body still feels frozen, my sweat-damp clothes clinging uncomfortably to my skin. I roll my shoulders, but the movement sends a dull ache radiating through my muscles.

If I didn't feel the pain before, I sure as hell do now.

My body is wrecked. Every muscle feels like it's been stretched past its limit, every step sending sharp protests through my legs.

There are only two cars left in the lot, making it easy to spot mine. I trudge toward it, every step feeling heavier than the last then another, but my body doesn't want to cooperate.

My legs feel like lead, each movement heavier than the last. My stomach twists sharply, a hollow ache spreading through my gut. The worms in my gut feel like they're biting, demanding.

I barely noticed it earlier, but now? Now it's all I can think about.

I haven't eaten in hours.

No wonder I feel like I'm dying.

By the time I reach the driver's side, I have to use the last bit of strength I've got left just to yank the door open. I toss my bag into the passenger seat, then collapse into the driver's seat, my entire body trembling.

Fuck.

I grip the steering wheel, trying to steady myself, but it's no use. My hands are shaking. My legs are weak. Every part of me feels like it's breaking down.

How the hell am I supposed to drive like this?

My head pounds relentlessly, my vision swimming at the edges. I blink hard, trying to clear the haze, but it only makes the exhaustion worse. My limbs feel disconnected from the rest of me, too heavy to lift. It's like my body is shutting down.

I grit my teeth, leaning my head against the headrest, trying to pull myself together. Get it together, Theo. Just get home. But my body isn't listening.

Swallowing hard, I reach for my bag, my fingers clumsy as I fumble for my phone. It takes me a second longer than it should, but I finally pull it out and unlock it with stiff, shaky hands.

I don't bother texting. My eyes can barely focus on the screen so instead I hit the voice message button and lift the phone to my lips.

"Logan," my voice comes out rough, hoarse. I swallow hard before continuing. "Might need you to pick me up. I feel like shit."

I pause, sucking in a shaky breath. "Actually... scratch that. I definitely need you to pick me up and also could you get me a chicken wrap on the way, I'll pay back, thanks."

I end the recording and send it off before letting my head rest against the headrest, my body sinking into the seat, the exhaustion winning.

I just need a minute. Maybe I could get a little rest before I force myself to drive.

I close my eyes.

Just for a second.

I should really know when to fucking stop.

My body screamed at me to stop hours ago, but I ignored it. Pushed through. Kept skating, kept shooting, kept punishing myself until I had nothing left. And now? Now, I've gotten myself into a hellhole.

I should've listened. Should've stopped before it got to this point. But no, I had to keep going. Had to squeeze every last second out of the rink, like I always do. And for what? Just to end up here-stuck in my car, too weak to even fucking drive?

Pathetic.

I let out a slow, shaky breath, willing my body to just hold on a little longer. But it's useless. My fingers are still trembling against the steering wheel, my muscles locked so tight I can barely shift in my seat.

I need to stop doing this to myself.

But I know I won't.

All the negative thoughts I've spent years trying to bury come swirling back, crashing into me like a fucking tidal wave.

You're wasting your time.

You're not good enough.

It isn't the first time the monsters in my head have told me that. That no matter how hard I push, no matter how many hours I spend on the ice, it'll never be enough. That the only reason I'm even here is because my family is torn in half, and I don't know how to exist outside of that brokenness. That no matter what I do, I can't escape the fucking bubble I've built around myself.

I try to resist it. Try to remind myself that I've done the best I could-that I am doing the best I can. But the thoughts don't let up. They sink their claws in and drag.

It's been a while since they've hit me this hard. Back when I lived alone, they never left-they sat with me every second, whispering, waiting. Then, for a while, they stopped. The reason why? I don't know. But fuck, I prayed they'd stay gone.

And now they're back.

I don't know how long I stay like this, slumped against the seat, too weak to even check the time. All I know is that, at some point, I hear something.

A voice.

Then a knock against the window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Theo." A pause, then another sharp knock. "Theo, fucking open the door!"

That's not Logan's voice.

I force my eyes open, blinking against the blurry haze clouding my vision. Angry green eyes stare back at me.

Green eyes?

Logan doesn't have green eyes. Or... am I hallucinating?

"If you don't open this damn door, I'm breaking the fucking window, and I ain't paying for it!"

Logan definitely doesn't curse like that.

I blink again, my vision still blurry, my head pounding too hard to think straight. The tapping turns into a full-on bang against the window, and my body barely reacts. Everything feels sluggish, distant-like I'm watching this happen to someone else.

"Theo, I swear to God, if you don't open this fucking door-"

I force my hand to move, my fingers shaking as they fumble for the lock. The second I manage to lift it, the door swings open, and a rush of cold air hits me, making my already trembling body shudder.

"What the fuck, Gray?" The voice-her voice-snaps at me, sharp and angry, but there's something else beneath it. Something that almost sounds like... concern?

I blink again, trying to focus, trying to place her face, but my brain feels like it's been dunked in cement.

Sophie.

It's fucking Sophie.

Of all people.

She's standing there, arms crossed tight over her chest, her brows pulled together in frustration. "Are you serious right now?" she demands. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

I open my mouth, but no words come out. My throat is too dry, my body too weak. I'm just sitting there, still gripping the steering wheel like it's the only thing holding me upright.

Her frustration only grows. "You look like shit," she says bluntly, and before I can process it, she's reaching inside, grabbing my arm. "Come on, move. You're not driving like this."

I don't have the energy to argue.

My body hurts. My limbs are screaming. My head feels like it's splitting in two, and fuck, I can still feel that gnawing hunger twisting my stomach into knots.

I let her pull me out of the car, my legs barely cooperating as I stumble forward.

"Jesus, Theo." Her grip tightens when I sway, her other hand pressing against my chest to steady me. "You're actually about to collapse, aren't you?"

I grit my teeth, swallowing down the wave of dizziness that threatens to knock me flat on my ass. "I'm fine," I mutter, but even I don't believe it.

She scoffs. "Yeah, sure. And I'm the fucking queen of England."

I try to shake her off, but my body isn't listening to me. I must look as bad as I feel because, instead of letting go, she only holds on tighter.

"Where's your damn keys?" she asks.

"Pocket," I mumble, the word barely making it past my lips.

She lets out an exasperated sigh before reaching into my jacket, pulling them out herself. "Unbelievable," she mutters. "I swear, if you pass out in my car, I'm leaving you on the side of the road."

But she doesn't.

Instead, she leads me toward the unknown car ahead, practically dragging me as my body finally starts giving out.

We enter the car and I stare at her. Really stare at her. My brain is still fogged up, my body still weak, and yet the only thing I can focus on is her sitting right next to me.

She shouldn't be here.

There's no way she's here.

My head must be fucking with me. Maybe I finally passed out behind the wheel, and this is some weird fever dream.

But she doesn't disappear. She just huffs and shoves a plastic cup into my hands. It's warm, the heat seeping through the thin material and into my fingers.

I glance down, then back up at her. "What-"

"I couldn't get the chicken wrap," she cuts me off, crossing her arms like that is the most frustrating thing about this situation. "I had to come in a hurry, so I just grabbed made this instead."

I blink again, still trying to keep up. My brain feels ten steps behind, my thoughts sluggish. "What are you-"

"Theo," she sighs, exasperated. Then, without looking at me, she turns to the front of the car. "Can you take us to McDonald's?"

Take us?

I glance toward the driver's seat for the first time, noticing a man staring at us through the rearview mirror. An Uber driver.

We're in a fucking Uber.

The driver gives her a tired look. "It's gonna cost extra this late."

"No problem," she says immediately, like she's not even considering another option.

I turn back to her, and for the first time, I really look at her. Not just the scowl she's wearing or the way she's bouncing her knee like she's ready to rip into me-but her eyes.

They're angry, sure. Frustrated. But beneath that... there's something else.

Something I don't expect.

Something I don't fucking believe.

She's worried about me.

No. That's impossible.

I must be seeing things.

Sophia wouldn't care about me.

She hates me.

She's made that perfectly clear since the moment she moved in. She barely tolerates me on a good day, and on a bad one? She's ready to wring my neck. There's no way she's actually worried. Any second now, she'll start laughing, snap a picture for evidence, and use it to blackmail me into doing whatever she wants.

It would be a joke to her.

Just another way to piss me off.

I grip the cup she handed me, still warm in my hands. My body is weak, my head pounding like someone's taking a hammer to it, but I can't stop staring at her.

She hasn't said anything else. She's just looking at me, arms crossed, her foot tapping against the car floor like she's holding back from yelling at me.

Where's the phone? The smug smirk? The usual I got you, dumbass expression she wears whenever she's being a pain in my ass?

It's not there.

I blink slowly, trying to process her words. My body is still too weak to react the way I normally would-sarcastic, indifferent, something that would piss her off-but all I can do is stare at her.

She looks... pissed. Not in her usual I want to kill you because you left the toilet seat up way, but something sharper, something I can't quite place.

I manage a slow nod, my throat still raw from exhaustion. I finally lift the cup and take a weak gulp, letting the familiar taste hit my tongue.

Wait.

I pull the cup away slightly, staring at it before glancing back at her.

"You-this is my protein supplement," I say, my voice hoarse.

She rolls her eyes. "Wow, genius. What gave it away?"

I ignore the sarcasm, still trying to make sense of it. "How did you-"

"I went to the kitchen, saw the container in the cupboard, and figured it was better than you passing out from low blood sugar," she says flatly, taking the empty cup from my hand and shoving it back into her bag.

I'm still staring at her.

Still trying to figure out how this happened.

"How did you get here?" I finally ask. Because honestly, the more I think about it, the more I start believing I might actually be in a coma, and my brain is just screwing with me.

But if that were the case, why would I be hallucinating her?

She sighs, shifting in her seat. "You sent a voice note."

I frown. "I sent it to Logan."

"You said Logan," she corrects, giving me a pointed look. "But you sent it to me."

Fuck.

My mind races, trying to remember the last thing I did before everything turned to shit. I did send a message-meant for Logan-but if I was as out of it as I think I was...

Shit.

I must have hit the wrong contact.

I groan, pressing a hand to my face. "You should've just called him instead."

That was the wrong thing to say.

Her entire expression shifts in an instant, eyes narrowing, body going rigid like she's ready to lunge at me.

"What's your problem?" she snaps.

I blink at her, too exhausted to come up with an answer.

"I'm trying to be a good roommate," she continues, her voice rising. "I literally came out here in the middle of the damn night because you sounded like you were dying, and still, it's not enough for you?"

I open my mouth, but she doesn't let me speak.

"Look here," she leans in, jabbing a finger in my direction, "I'm going to pretend that you're sick since your body is burning up like a damn furnace, and I'm going to be nice to you today. So you better shut up and take my niceness, are we clear?"

I stare at her, my lips slightly parted in shock.

Sophia. Being nice.

I must really be dying.

The car slows to a stop, and the Uber driver clears his throat. "We're here."

Sophia immediately reaches for the door handle, pushing it open before glancing back at me. "Stay."

I lift a brow, but she's already out of the car, heading toward the side window of the McDonald's to place the order.

I watch her closely, my gaze following every movement-the way she crosses her arms, impatiently tapping her fingers against her sleeve, the way she shifts her weight from foot to foot, her hair falling forward as she leans slightly toward the worker at the window. She's muttering something, her expression serious but not irritated.

This version of her-focused, determined, doing something for me-is still hard to wrap my head around.

A minute later, she turns back toward the car, brown paper bag in hand. She slides back into the seat and shoves it toward me.

"Eat. Now."

It's an order, not a suggestion.

I don't argue. I just nod, unwrapping the warm food and taking a slow bite. The moment the taste hits my tongue, I realize just how empty my stomach is.

It's rare-her being this concerned.

The last time she was this nice to me was when she made that pasta, and I still haven't done anything remotely nice in return.

It's a weird feeling, knowing she's doing this just because-out of kindness-and here I am, attaching her like an idiot.

I swallow and glance at her. "Thank you."

Her expression shifts slightly, something flickering in her eyes.

"Sorry I'm acting this aggressive," I add, rubbing my jaw. "It's just-"

"The hunger," she finishes for me, her voice softer now. "I know."

She exhales, shaking her head before glancing away, like making eye contact is suddenly too much. "Whatever. Just eat."

A small smile tugs at my lips.

"Yes, ma'am."

She snorts, still looking away, but I don't miss the faint, amused smile forming at the corner of her lips.

I made her smile.

Again.

The sight of her smiling-twice-because of me does something strange to my chest. It's small, barely there, but it's real. And I was the reason for it.

That's never happened before. At least, not in a way that felt genuine.

And now that I think about it, this is the longest we've talked all week.

Last week, after that morning when I really got under her skin-teasing her about her camera, making her all flustered, then calling her a good girl just to watch her fall apart-she's been avoiding me like the damn plague.

At college, at home-it was like I suddenly didn't exist in her world.

When she and her department came to take the usual shots of us on the ice, her lens never once pointed in my direction. Not once. Even when she was snapping pictures of the team, she somehow managed to keep her focus anywhere but me.

I even tested it, glaring so hard in her direction that I was sure she'd feel it, but she didn't even flinch. Didn't even look at me.

One of the guys actually turned to me, brows furrowed, and asked if I was feeling okay.

I wasn't.

And I hated how much that pissed me off.

I wasn't good. Not even close.

It was stupid, really. I shouldn't care if she ignored me. It shouldn't bother me. But it did.

I told myself it was because I was used to her reactions-her irritated glares, her snarky remarks, the way she'd get all worked up over the smallest things I did just to mess with her. It was fun watching her struggle between hating me and trying not to show it.

But after that morning, she didn't even acknowledge me.

And I hated it.

At home, it was the same. She kept her distance, barely spoke to me unless she had to, and even then, it was short and clipped. Like she couldn't wait to get away.

And now here she was, sitting across from me in this Uber, ordering me food, forcing me to eat, acting like she cared.

I chewed slowly, watching her as she stared out the window, arms crossed, like she wasn't fully comfortable being here.

Why was she doing this?

Why did she care if I ate?

She's Sophia. She doesn't care about me.

Right?

The wrap was good, but my mind wasn't focused on the taste. It was focused on her-on the way her expression had softened after I thanked her, on the way she turned her head away, like she couldn't handle looking at me too long.

Like maybe... just maybe... she didn't hate me as much as she pretended to.

And for some reason, that thought made me feel so fucking better than all the throws I had at the rink this evening.