Chapter Thirty-Five – Fawn
I’m now well and truly stuck between the pages and the rink. Even though I promised myself I’d write just one sentence last night, of course I didn’t. After such a caffeine boost, I did what I always do when I realize my emotions are overpowering me: I procrastinated.
I lay there, listening to our song, the one that Dylan and I now share, and replayed it over and over — letting it envelop me until it felt sewn into my skin.
Everything in life feels amazing right now, too good to be true.
However, there’s this voice in the back of my head that won’t quiet, whispering reminders that nothing this good can last. What goes up must come crashing back down, right?
Everything feels like it’s moving too fast. We talk like we’ve known each other for years.
The thing is, we’ve barely begun. Can three people really connect this quickly?
It sounds impossible. Unreal, even. The kind of thing I watch in movies. And yet here I am. I know it’s rare but maybe sometimes a bond doesn’t need years to form. Maybe all it takes is a single spark that burns bright enough to make up for all the time that came before.
Everything is feeling intense at the moment. It doesn’t help that I’m already fragile this morning. Grandpa didn’t recognize me again, and the weight of the fees is sitting heavily on my chest.
Before going to the rink, I parked outside for nearly thirty minutes, engine off, my head against the steering wheel, phone clutched to my ear as I had Delilah try to calm me down.
I was overthinking every damn thing. She said nothing was doomed just because it seemed that way.
If I needed bar shifts, they would be mine, no questions asked.
She even offered to give me a loan, which I declined.
Then, we got onto the topic of my men. “You can’t just sit around waiting for the universe to kick you in,” she said.
“Stop preparing for the worst and actually let yourself have fun with Dylan and Torin.” Delilah made everything seem possible, as if I wasn’t a fool for trying to have multiple good things.
Then, she drifted into Texas, her voice all swoony about the hot sun that never stops shining, the way everything is just bigger and noisier.
She yapped on about Cal being so perfect for her — the way he seems to fit like he was meant for the place.
I know how she feels. She also reminded me that the concert is in a few days and that she is absolutely going to scream her lungs out; she’s already planning her recovery regimen.
Somewhere between her laughter and the hum of my phone, her voice softened as we move to the topic of my book. She told me I should write, not for work but myself. “Write about your men,” she said, teasing but earnest. “Put all your emotions into the book.”
Maybe she had a point. Writing from a blank page has never been my strong suit. I’ve always gotten my best stories from people, from moments I could latch on to. When I had real smiles, hands, and passion to go off, the words began to flow.
Sitting inside the rink, I can hear players in the locker room from where I am, perched on the bench along the board. There’s a lot of laughing, swearing, slamming of the lockers, and some terrible excuse for music playing. It all brings a smile to my face.
Out on the ice, a handful of figure skaters glide effortlessly. I pick out Harper quickly. She’s easy to spot, even from a distance, with her confident stride and precise movements.
She skates beautifully. She’s got this strange sixth-sense thing going on, because as soon as I lock eyes with her, she slows down, stops, and looks right at me, giving me an evil grin.
My stomach ties up, and I can sense she’s up to something.
A few of the other girls skate over, and the blades hiss on the ice as they bunch up. They huddle in tight, their heads bent, talking in hushed tones. I manage to catch a sentence.
“I’ll say something,” Harper whispers.
Then, they each look at me, one by one, right out in the open. Oh no, this can’t be good. My breathing hitches.
A voice in me tells me to jump up, cup my hands around my mouth, and shout, ‘What’s your problem, Harper?’ But I don’t. This isn’t a place for me to lose it.
A long exhale escapes me as the tunnel swells with the sound of footsteps and conversation. The hockey team begins to pour out, their gear half-on, helmets bouncing from their hands. The sight of my men jolts a fuzzy feeling through me and suddenly I’m standing, breathless.
My men. My yin and yang.
I peel away from the bench to say hi before they go out on the ice. A quick greeting, a smile, something normal to keep me grounded.
That’s when Harper steps off the ice. I don’t know why I stop to let her by. Instinct, perhaps? Or simply good manners, which I don’t owe her. She positions herself right in front of me, her arms crossed.
“You know Ivywood’s a small place,” she says in an ominous tone. “Word gets around.”
“Okay . . . what’s that supposed to mean?”
Her eyes sweep from my feet to my face in a single, unhurried pass. “You don’t belong here.”
A short, sharp sound escapes my throat before I can swallow it back. “What, in Ivywood?”
“No. The rink.” She tilts her head, studying me like a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. “You don’t fit in.”
My pulse kicks up, irritation flaring hot in my chest. “Harper, what’s your prob—”
But she’s already walking away. Standing there, I’m immobile, with a pounding heartbeat amidst a jumble of confusion and aggravation.
I have a burning need to follow her, a voice in my head telling me to demand an answer, but I don’t.
Because I see Dylan looking around, scanning the rink, and Torin already grinning when his dark eyes land on me.
They look ridiculously hot in their hockey kits.
I never knew green could be that sexy, and with the added height of their skates, they look absolutely massive — powerful, confident, impossible not to stare at.
Whatever Harper’s playing at can wait. Right now, all I care about is my men.
****
Torin
And there she is, shining bright as always.
The entire rink collides into focus the moment she’s in front of me.
Everything else fades into the background.
Dylan gets to her before I do, leaning in to kiss her cheek, and I follow right behind him, planting a kiss on her other cheek without a second thought.
I can hear the players murmuring behind us, watching and whispering — and honestly, I don’t give a fuck.
“Here to watch practice, princess?” Dylan asks, full of quiet pride.
“Well,” she replies quietly, just loud enough for us to hear, a teasing smile curling her lips, “more you two at this point.”
Dylan grins and presses in again, this time with a bent head and a slow, measured kiss on her cheek. That’s when I notice, to the side of me, a presence creeping into our circle, crowding too closely. I can tell from the red hair it’s Leo James, edging right up.
“So how’s this supposed to work?” he asks, loud enough to be heard. “Dylan gets Thursdays, you get her on Fridays, Torin?”
A few of the guys are laughing behind him, and the sound makes my jaw lock into place. I pivot to meet him fully, jaw set, body coiled beneath a surface I’m fighting to keep calm.
“What?” I say with an edge to my voice.
James surveys the other players with a sense of familiarity, taking pleasure in their attention. “I’m just curious,” he continues, smirking. “Do we all get to share the writer?”
Fuck no. He did not just say that. I’m praying the lord gives me extra strength, because I’m about to knock him out.
The rink appears to freeze. Before I can react in any way, Dylan gets in front of me, putting himself between James and me.
“Fuck you, Leo!” Rage pours through Dylan’s voice. “You’re off the team.”
James stares in shock. “It was a joke. Seriously? Over a girl? That’s bullshit.”
“Yeah. Now get the fuck out of the rink,” Dylan growls, moving forward until they’re nearly nose to nose.
James laughs in amazement, but a glimmer of uncertainty flickers in his eyes. “This has gotta be a joke, right?”
I move up in front of Dylan, each muscle locked as I close the distance between James and me.
My forehead nearly touches his. I can feel the warmth of his skin, sense the change in his breathing when he catches on — too late — that he just made a mistake he can never take back.
I ball my hands at my sides and hold them there, because it’s that or lose control of them entirely. “Did he fucking stutter?”
James’s face darkens and twists into a sneer, and he leans in, relishing this moment, clearly thinking he has the upper hand. “If you didn’t want anyone to know about your girl,” he spits, “maybe you shouldn’t have been all over each other at the diner. Ivywood’s a small town . . .”
Dylan pulls on my arm, trying to haul me back, but I shake him off without even cracking a glance in his direction. I don’t dare take a step back. I won’t.
“Get the fuck out of here.” Whatever comes out of my mouth is less a sentence and more a warning. “Now, James.”
James gives me this nasty laugh and pushes his head against mine. I can smell his breath, and I can sense the dare in him. “What are you gonna do? I’m not afraid of you, Anderson.”
A small hand tugs at my arm. I know it’s Fawn before I even hear her voice.
“Torin,” she says, pleading, “leave it. Please.”
For half a second, I hesitate.
James takes that moment and destroys it. “Go on, Anderson,” he sneers. “Do what the local slut tells you.”
Everything goes red.
I don’t think. My body simply acts on instinct, pushing him hard so he rebounds onto the rubber flooring.
I am on him in an instant, pinning him to the floor with my knees while my fists fly.
I hear voices shouting, somebody saying my name, hands grasping at my shoulders, but it is distant, muffled, as if I am hearing it all from underwater.
Something savage tears loose inside me — my arm swings down, all heat and no thought. “Don’t you ever—”
Another hit.
“Call her—”
Another.
“—that again!”
Arms haul me back and pull me away from him, a crowd of people finally managing to drag us apart. I struggle for a moment, my lungs burning in protest, my fists clenched, seeing red with rage.
Because no one gets to speak about her like that. Not ever.
Another defenseman rushes to James and helps him get on his feet; he’s got a busted eyebrow, a split lip, blood trickling down from it, and a red face.
“Fawn!” I hear Dylan call out from behind me.
The sound of her name cuts straight through the haze. My gaze drops down. Fawn lies on the floor, and my whole body turns to stone at the sight of her.
Fuck. Fuck, what have I done?
I’m right beside her in seconds, dropping down. My hands tremble as I reach for her. “Baby, I am so sorry. Are you okay?” I blurt out, a fierce panic lodged tightly in my throat. The idea of hurting her because I lost control makes it hard for me to breathe.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” she repeats, already attempting to stand, as if she cares more about me than she does about herself.
I don’t believe it. I examine her face, her hands, her arms, searching for blood, for any evidence of what I may have done. Bile climbs my throat as the truth settles: it was me. I’m the one who hurt her. I’d never forgive myself.
Before anyone can utter another word, I shout, “None of you will ever disrespect her again! Dylan and I are seeing this beautiful woman!” My voice cuts through the rink like a blade.
“And so fucking what? If any of you have a problem, don’t whisper about it!
Say it to my face. I fucking dare you. But let this be a warning: you will lose your teeth or end up with a broken nose. ”
Everyone goes dead silent.
Then, Dylan steps forward, his voice low, dangerous. “If anyone even mentions her name in the wrong way again,” he says, eyes sweeping the team, “I won’t hesitate to kick any one of you off this fucking team.”
Behind me, Fawn’s fingers curl into my arm, gripping tight — not pulling me back, just grounding me.
Before anyone can say anything, Coach’s voice rings out. “What in the fuck is going on here?”
Dylan doesn’t hesitate. “Coach, Leo is off the team for being disrespectful.”
Clenching his jaw, Coach looks between all of us and then lands on Fawn. I don’t like the way he looks at her, but he appears to be connecting the dots, figuring out how deep the problem really is.
“Anderson, Crawley,” he snaps. “Office. Now!”
“I should . . . I should go.” Fawn’s voice comes out barely above a whisper.
I pull her toward me, as if I can protect her. “Did I — did I hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” she repeats, as if she really means it. “Really. Are you okay?”
“Don’t you dare worry about me.” I pull back a little to check her face one last time, my hands gentle as I tilt her face up to make sure she isn’t bleeding or injured. “I’m so sorry, baby,” I whisper, leaning in to kiss her lips — more of an apology.
Dylan follows behind me and does the same. “We’ll meet you later, okay, princess?”
She nods, giving us a small smile before turning and walking away. Every instinct in me screams to follow her, to make sure she’s safe, to stay with her, but I force myself to stay put.
I made this mess, and now, I have to fucking face it.