Heatwave Truce

SLOANE

I woke up drowning in heat.

Sheets clung to my skin like wet paper. My hair plastered to the back of my neck. The air felt thick, heavy, pressing down on my chest like a physical weight.

I reached for my phone—7:23 a.m. Already eighty-four degrees outside, forecast high of ninety-eight.

Great.

I kicked off the covers and immediately regretted it; the movement only stirred more hot air around me.

From downstairs came Victoria’s voice—sharp, stressed, phone pressed to her ear.

“—yes, I understand you’re backed up, but it’s going to be nearly one hundred degrees today and we have no air conditioning—”

I sat up.

No air conditioning.

*Fuck.*

I peeled myself off the mattress, grabbed the first thing within reach—an oversized Flyers practice jersey that hit mid-thigh—and padded barefoot downstairs.

The kitchen was already a war zone.

Victoria stood at the counter in a tank top and shorts I’d never seen her wear, phone to her ear, free hand rubbing her temple. Dad sat at the island in gym shorts and nothing else, fanning himself with a rolled-up magazine like it might actually help. Chase leaned against the fridge—shirtless, gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still damp from the shower, holding a water bottle pressed to the back of his neck.

I stopped in the doorway.

His eyes lifted. Traveled down—taking in the too-big jersey, my bare legs, the obvious fact I wasn’t wearing anything underneath—then dragged slowly back up to my face. Held my gaze one beat too long.

I looked away first.

“Saturday,” Victoria said into the phone, voice tight. “The earliest you can get here is Saturday? That’s two days from now—” She listened. Exhaled hard. “Fine. Yes. First thing Saturday morning. Thank you.”

She hung up and turned to face the room.

“Saturday morning,” she announced. “The AC repair company can’t get anyone out until Saturday morning.”

Dad groaned dramatically. “We’re going to die.”

“We’re not going to die.”

“It’s going to be ninety-eight today. Ninety-nine tomorrow. With no air conditioning.” He gestured at the room like it was already a crime scene. “This is how people die, Victoria.”

“Then we’ll manage. We have the pool. We have fans. We’ll figure it out.”

“We should go to a hotel.”

“For two nights? That’s ridiculous.”

“Dying in our own home is ridiculous.”

I crossed to the fridge, opened it just to feel the cold air hit my face, and grabbed a bottle of water. It felt like heaven against my palms.

“Morning,” Chase said. Voice low. Rough. Not from sleep.

“Morning,” I replied without looking at him.

“Sleep well?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

I closed the fridge and turned. He was still watching.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.” But the corner of his mouth curved—just barely. “Nice shirt.”

I glanced down. One of Dad’s old Flyers practice jerseys—faded, worn soft, hanging almost to my knees but riding up when I moved.

“It’s hot,” I said.

“I noticed.”

Victoria clapped her hands once—sharp, decisive. “Okay. New plan. We survive. Pool access all day. I’ll pick up more fans on my way home from work. Richard, you’re working from the basement—it’s the coolest room. Chase, Sloane—do whatever you need to stay cool. Just… don’t die.”

“Great pep talk,” Dad muttered.

Victoria shot him a look.

I grabbed my water and headed back upstairs before anyone could say anything else.

---

By noon I’d given up on productivity.

My room was a furnace. Windows open, fan on high, lying completely naked on top of the sheets—nothing helped. The heat pressed in from every direction.

I’d tried working on the Chase interview transcript. Tried reading. Tried literally anything that didn’t involve moving more than necessary.

Nothing worked.

Finally I gave up.

Pulled on the black bikini—high-waisted bottoms, simple triangle top—grabbed a towel, and headed for the pool.

I pushed through the back door and froze.

Chase was already there.

Floating on his back in the deep end, arms spread wide, eyes closed, completely still except for the occasional lazy kick to keep himself centered. Water lapped around him in slow, bright ripples. The sun turned every droplet on his skin into a tiny prism.

I stood there longer than I should have.

Dropped my towel on a lounge chair.

He opened his eyes. Saw me. Went still.

I walked to the edge, sat, dangled my legs in.

The water was warm from the sun—not cold—but still a shock of relief against my overheated skin.

Chase swam closer. Stopped a few feet away. Stood in chest-deep water, droplets running down his chest, over the carved lines of his abs, disappearing into the waistband of his swim trunks.

“Couldn’t take the heat?” he asked.

“My room is a sauna.”

“Mine too.” He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back. “Fan’s just moving hot air around.”

“Fans always just move hot air around.”

“Useful observation.”

“I’m very observant.”

“I’ve noticed.”

The pool filter hummed. Somewhere distant, a lawnmower droned. The sun beat down mercilessly.

I slid into the water—slow, deliberate—letting it rise up my legs, hips, stomach. Sank deeper until only my shoulders and head were above the surface. Exhaled.

*Better.*

I pushed off the wall and swam a lazy lap—front crawl, nothing intense, just enough to feel the water move over my skin. When I surfaced at the far end, he was watching—quiet, focused, the same look he wore on the ice when he was reading the play before it happened.

“You swim like a hockey player,” he said.

I wiped water from my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Powerful. Efficient. Not pretty.”

I splashed him—hard enough to make a point, not hard enough to start a war.

He blinked. Laughed—low, surprised.

“See? Aggressive.”

“I’m not aggressive.”

“You’re something.”

I swam back toward him. Stopped a few feet away. The water between us rippled gently. Sunlight bounced off the surface in bright, shifting patterns.

“Truce?” he asked suddenly.

“For what?”

“The heat. The interview. Everything.” He shrugged one shoulder—small, almost shy. “It’s too hot to fight.”

I considered it.

“Temporary truce,” I said.

“Deal.”

Silence settled—easier this time. No edge. No defensiveness.

I leaned back, let myself float. Eyes closed against the glare. Water filled my ears, muffling the world to a soft, distant hum.

When I opened my eyes, he was closer. Not touching. Just… closer.

“You ever think about getting on the ice?” he asked.

I righted myself. “What?”

“Skating. You know so much about hockey. You’ve never tried it?”

“Dad tried to make me play when I was little. I hated it. And after Mom—” I shrugged. “Just never happened.”

Something flickered in his face—not pity. Recognition.

“You should try it.”

“Now? In ninety-eight degrees?”

He smirked—faint, almost boyish. “C’mon. I’d teach you.”

The offer hung there—casual on the surface, but nothing about Chase Hartley offering to teach me anything felt casual.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you’d hate it at first. And then you’d love it.” His eyes held mine—steady, unguarded. “And I’d like to see that.”

Something twisted low in my stomach. Nothing to do with the heat.

I looked away. Splashed water idly with my hand.

“Maybe.”

We floated longer. Talked less. The sun climbed higher, turning the deck into a griddle, but the water kept us sane.

At some point he swam to the edge and pulled himself out—water streaming down his back, muscles shifting under sun-kissed skin. He grabbed two towels from the chair, tossed one to me without asking.

I caught it mid-air.

“Thanks.”

He nodded. Dried his hair roughly, then draped the towel over his shoulders.

“I’m heading in. Basement’s got that old window unit—it’s the only place not melting.”

I wrapped the towel around myself. “Smart.”

“You can join if you want.” He paused at the door. Looked back. “Temporary truce, remember?”

I hesitated—only a second.

“Fine,” I said. “But only because I might actually die otherwise.”

He smiled—small, real. “Noted.”

---

The basement was cooler—not cold, but bearable. The ancient window AC unit rattled in the corner, pumping out air that felt like mercy after the upstairs inferno.

Dad was in the far corner with his laptop, earbuds in, lost in whatever spreadsheet he was staring at.

Chase had claimed the old leather couch—sprawled out in swim trunks, still shirtless, phone in one hand, water bottle in the other.

I took the armchair across from him, curled up with my towel even though it was damp.

He scrolled. I pulled out my phone and pretended to read emails.

“You finish the article?” he asked eventually.

“Not yet.”

Dad looked up from his screen. “I just ordered pizza. We’ll eat down here tonight—keep the heat contained.” Then he went back to typing.

Chase glanced at me. I looked at my phone.

Outside, the heat pressed against the windows like it wanted in.

Inside, something between us had quietly rearranged itself—not resolved, not named, just… sitting differently in the air than it had this morning.

I didn’t look up to check if he’d noticed.

I didn’t need to.

The truce held.

For now.