Page 33

Astrid

I shouldn’t reach out and put my hand on Grayson’s thigh, but I do.

His leg is warm, bordering on obscenely hot, radiating heat that cuts through his pants and right into my hand. The touch of it makes me shiver, and think about what it would be like to have his arm around me on the street on the walk here.

I’d always thought that kind of thing was strictly for PDA—some sort of primitive claiming ritual held over from our caveman psychology. But maybe there’s some merit to it. Maybe, if the one person is huge and generating heat like a furnace, it just makes sense for them to sling an arm around the other.

Conversation moves forward at the table, and when I move to pull my hand away, Grayson finds it under the table, laces my fingers through his, and keeps it there in his lap even as he jokes with Luca about one of the plays that happened during the game.

I catch myself looking over at him far too much—how is he capable of this? I saw the wave of anxiety that rushed over him at the mention of the girls earlier. Saw how he’d started to sink down inside himself.

And now he’s holding my hand under the table, acting like it’s nothing as he easily carries on conversation around us.

When the after-dinner mints come and everyone realizes Ruby snuck away at some point and paid for the whole meal, a flurry of Venmo-ing and cash on the table follows, until Ruby is red from laughing and pushing away the money by sending it back.

Grayson slips his hand out of my mine as we slide out from the booth. While I’m warm now, I’m dreading the moment we go back out onto the street and that cold Minnesota air cuts right through the knit of my sweater again.

“Guess wha- at ?” Sloane sings, the moment we step out onto the chilly street.

“What?” Grayson takes the bait, and Sloane lights up with glee, turning her phone out and showing it to all of us like a teacher at story time.

“There’s a black light bowling place down the street,” she says, and I only catch a glimpse of a photo on her phone—something space themed, a bowling ball with a ring like Saturn’s around it—before she whips the phone around and tucks it in her pocket triumphantly. “We should go.”

Everyone agrees, and a second later, we’re walking down the street together, then piling into the bowling alley. No matter where we are, I feel Grayson’s presence, like my body is hyperaware of his, some sort of tractor beam—a line from me to him.

When he stands behind me, I’m both terrified that he’s going to reach out and touch me, and sorely disappointed when he doesn’t.

Sloane pays for us, and we shuffle into the place, collecting our shoes, changing, and moving over to the far lane.

I’m not the biggest fan of bowling, or places like this in general. But even I have to admit that this place is cool. A huge model of the solar system hangs from a tall roof, which is lined with those glow-in-the-dark stars kids like to put on their ceilings.

All the balls glow different colors, and when I watch a little boy roll his down the lane, lights follow its path, dancing away from it.

We walk through the place, and Maverick peels off to purchase pitchers of drinks for the group. I feel completely dwarfed by the guys walking on either side of me, and think for a moment that the other bowlers might notice the professional athletes in their midst.

But if anyone recognizes the guys, they keep it to themselves. Maybe only NHL players from the Wild get recognized here, or maybe the patrons of this place are only interested in bowling.

While I’m leaning over, tying my shoes, I feel someone sit down beside me, and know without looking that it’s Grayson. His thigh presses against mine, that delicious, ever-present heat filtering through his pants and mine, pressing up against my skin.

It makes me shiver, and he whispers, “Still cold?”

“Nah.” I go for nonchalance, which feels weird, given the amount of time he and I have spent alone together. Sloane stands on the other side of the lane, laughing loudly at something Ruby’s said as they survey the options for bowling balls.

When I look back at Grayson, his eyes are sparkling.

“What?” I ask, reflexively, and to my surprise, he shrugs almost languidly, his answer coming smoothly.

“I never knew how much I wanted to see you in bowling shoes until this very moment,” he says, and I know his voice is quiet enough that nobody can hear but me, but it still sends warmth radiating through my face, heating the tips of my ears.

Glancing down at his feet, I let out a quick laugh, then stuff my hand over my face.

“What?” Grayson presses, wiggling his feet back and forth over the floor. I’d never noticed it before, but in the two-toned bowling shoes, it’s more than obvious. His feet are huge .

Eyes fixed on me, he starts to laugh as well, “What, Astrid? Do you have something to say about my feet?”

I flick my eyes up to his, mouth still covered by my hand, and let out a muffled, “No, no.”

“Because it would be very rude to make fun of someone’s feet, don’t you think?”

Tears pool in the corners of my eyes—why is this so funny? Maybe it’s not about his feet at all, but the infectious feeling of laughing with him, watching his face turn red, tracking the way his eyes watch me, clearly delighting in the moment.

“Grayson,” someone says, and we both jump, looking up to see Sloane standing there, hip popped out, looking between the two of us. She glances at the screen, where Grayson’s goofy picture flashes. “Your turn.”

Grayson stands, clearing his throat, “Alright. Let’s see what I can do.”

As he goes, I can almost feel how badly he wants to look back at me, but he doesn’t. He keeps his gaze forward, saying something to Luca when he reaches down, grabbing a ball.

I want to watch him, to see how well he does with a sport that’s not his, but Sloane clears her throat in front of me, arms crossed over her chests, eyes narrowed in on my face like she can read the truth there if only she tries hard enough.

“What?” I finally say, aiming for casual, but probably not achieving it.

“Oh, nothing,” she breezes, spinning and dropping onto the bench next to me. Together, we watch as Grayson moves fluidly toward the line at the front of the lane, extending his arm and releasing the ball perfectly, spinning it straight down the center and getting an easy strike.

When Sloane looks back at me, she says, her voice low. “Just, you know what they say about big feet…”

“Shut up ,” I say, feeling like a teenager. Sloane laughs maniacally, and I push against her shoulder, and eventually it’s my turn to bowl. I feel Grayson’s eyes on me as I do, and I feel his eyes on me for the rest of the night. Every time we pass, he finds an inconspicuous reason to touch me, fingers grazing as we pass a pitcher of water, his hand carefully on my back as he scoots behind me. And each time he does, it sends hot, vibrant electricity crackling out through my body.

Despite the fact that Sloane is watching me like a hawk, I only have one objective in mind: find a way to sneak into Grayson O’Connor’s room the second we get back to the hotel.