Chapter 11
ELEVEN
DYLAN
SUMMER PRESTON MIGHT be the grim reaper disguised as a sports psychology student.
“It’s not that bad. Quit whining,” Summer scolds.
The it she’s referring to is the six-mile Metacomet hike she dragged me on this uncharacteristically cold September morning at the crack of dawn.
Ever since she found out about the suspension, she’s been hell-bent on getting me to do an activity every day.
Something to do with never becoming complacent with my current situation.
It’s been pretty damn hard not to be, since the only thing I’ve ever been talented at slipped through my fingers because of one bad decision.
It’s exhausting trying to juggle my new lifestyle and having to pay attention in class.
Yesterday, Summer tricked me into Aiden’s truck claiming there was an emergency.
But when she parked outside Dalton Aquatic Center, I refused to go inside.
She had to drag me through the automatic glass doors and into a water aerobics class she signed us up for.
She must think we’re fucking geriatric. The older women were highly appreciative of my attendance but despite my past, the Stifler’s mom—or grandma—thing isn’t really my style.
Since then, I’ve been avoiding Summer, but she barged in my room this morning with her eyes covered, then guilt-tripped me into this hike.
I still think she’s getting me back for not telling her I’m Turkish.
“I think you’re a sadist,” I say.
“I’m flattered,” Summer says, almost twisting her ankle on a jagged rock before I steady her. “Now, stop complaining. I’ll treat you to Lola’s after this.”
“You can’t bribe me with food, Sunny. I’m not Kian,” I retort.
“I know you’re not. Kian doesn’t complain when he hikes with me.”
I laugh. “That’s because the guy is incapable of saying no.”
“It has nothing to do with his savior complex. He enjoys the outdoors.”
The only positive to this hike is that I’m not hungover this time. But even the box-breathing exercises and the stretches we do aren’t enough to distract me from the empty pit.
If I’m not playing, then what the hell am I doing? The campus playboy and party animal badge of “honor” lost its luster pretty quickly. Now that I don’t have hockey, it’s like a curtain has been lifted. I’m not Dylan the left-winger who guarantees a good time, I’m the guy they pity.
What do you do when you lose the one thing you’ve always loved?
The answer isn’t a grueling hike and a disappointing view—post-rain, muggy, and anticlimactic, just like you’d expect. There’s not much to see in Hartford.
The quiet of the hike only makes me replay yesterday morning when I went to the rink to find Kilner but saw Sierra frozen and stiff, in the center of the ice.
She was having a panic attack. I only knew that because in freshman year when Kian found out his dad died, I found him in his bathroom gasping for air.
When I took him to emergency, they told us it was a panic attack and taught us grounding techniques.
But while Kian needed space to breathe when he had his, Sierra didn’t want to let me go.
“Worth it?” I ask Summer, who’s busy snapping pictures of the dull view.
“Seeing you like this is always worth it.” She takes a picture of me and snickers, and I glance back over the edge, considering whether I should just hop over it to avoid another hour of misery.
Kilner: My office. Tomorrow.
Dylan: Can’t you just tell me what it’s about now? Suspense gives me hives.
Kilner: Good. Itch all night.
I’ve gotten this same text from him so many times, I’m considering having them embroidered on a pillow.
When we got back from the hike this morning, I decided it was time to study.
Now I’m sitting in the Fishbowl—the all-glass study area right by the quad—trying to do just that, when a pink-haired girl sits on the arm of my chair, distracting me from my Venture Capital and Private Equity notes.
“I thought that was you! It’s been a while.”
I search my memory for pink hair, and what looks like two nipple piercings straining against her T-shirt. I haven’t had sex in a long time—well, long for me—and my brain seems to be lagging. “Hey … Becca?”
Her smile doesn’t waver. “It’s Carly.”
“Right,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
“The football team’s having their week zero party, you coming? I’ll be there with my girlfriend from Harvard.”
Oh. Pink hair. Nipple Piercings. Threesome.
That night I recall very well, and now she’s offering again, and the fact that I hesitate at all makes me want to reevaluate my whole life.
But I don’t hook up with anyone more than once.
There’s too much risk of there becoming a dependence.
I’ve kept those rules very clear, and I don’t move the goalpost for anyone.
“I’ll see if I can make it,” I say. Sampson texted me about it earlier, and I haven’t replied.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find us.” Carly leans in to pull me in for a hug, pressing her tits right up against me. “I’ll bring rope.”
“Donovan,” that smoky voice calls in a bored tone.
The pink-haired girl pulls away, sidestepping Sierra, who stands with her arms crossed, green eyes on me. She doesn’t even glance at … what was her name again? I’m really off my game.
Sierra’s dark hair is twisted in a clip, two loose strands framing her face like a soft halo. She’s got her pink skate bag on her arm, and she’s wearing a black skirt and full-sleeve sweater.
I blink innocently. “Me?”
“Don’t make this harder than it already is,” Sierra mutters, her voice tight. Someone still shushes her, and Sierra’s lips press together. “I came here to say—”
Another shush cuts her off, her attempt to whisper swallowed by the irritation in her voice. Suddenly, she grips my wrist and pulls me off the couch. My textbook hits the floor, but I let her drag me wherever she wants. It’s a thrill I haven’t felt since she yelled at me at that party.
Sierra tugs me between two shelves cluttered with charging laptops. Without skates, I’m reminded just how much shorter she is than me. We’re so close that if I leaned down an inch, I could catch the faint scent of cherry lip gloss.
Her green eyes are wider, almost electric, and her glossy bottom lip is caught between her teeth, as if she’s nervous. Almost guilty.
“Is claustrophobia your kink? It’s the second time you’ve dragged me into a tight space.”
“Look, I wasn’t in the best headspace on the ice yesterday, and I was harsh when you were only trying to help. My best friend seems to think I could’ve gotten hurt if it wasn’t for you. So I wanted to … apologize. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that when you were being nice.”
Damn, today is shaping up to be way better than I expected. “Go on.”
She blinks. “That’s it. I just came to apologize for being rude.”
I shake my head. “You suck at this, Romanova. But talk is cheap. I’ll forgive you on one condition.”
“You know, now that I think about it, I can live with this tiny stain on my conscience.” She tries to leave, but I block her exit. The space is barely wide enough to fit my shoulders.
“There’s nothing tiny about me. This’ll be a big stain on your conscience—some may say huge. You won’t be able to sleep without seeing this innocent face.” I pout.
Sierra shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her gaze darting to the clock on the far wall. After hockey practice ends, there’s only so much free ice, so this conversation is cutting into her skating time, yet she’s still here.
“Fine, what do you want?” she asks.
“A kiss.”
She jerks back, nearly hitting the shelf, mouth opening and closing as she searches for the right words.
God, I fucking love this. “Don’t get too excited now. I meant on my cheek.” I tap my face. “And all is forgiven.”
She guffaws. “There is no way I’m going anywhere near your face.”
“Why not? I’ve been told it’s very nice.”
“So this is how you get all those girls. By talking about how pretty your face is?”
I grin. “I never said pretty. That was all you.”
She sighs, then glances around again, her shoulders stiff with uncertainty as she steps into my space.
I don’t move, and after a moment of hesitation, she rises on her tiptoes, her lips brushing the corner of my mouth in a quick, almost startled kiss.
Before I can react, she jumps back like she’s been burned.
“I am actually sor—” Her attention flicks to a student grabbing a book off a lower shelf.
“Don’t say sorry to me, Sierra. I don’t need it.”
“What was that kiss for, then?”
I shrug. “I just like seeing you squirm.”
“Asshole,” she mutters, slipping out of the cramped space.
“Brat,” I shoot back.
She throws a quick glare over her shoulder before disappearing out of the Fishbowl. With a grin still glued to my face, I walk back to my chair, though it’s hard to study when I can still feel the pressure of her lips on my skin. So I pack up my shit and head home.
THE LAST THING I expect to see when I step through the front door is all my friends sitting at the dining table waiting for me.
The tension in the air is thick, like they’ve been holding their breath since I walked in.
My stomach twists, a knot of dread forming as I realize something’s off.
They all look at me, not with the usual easy smiles, but with concern, even disappointment, and it hits me like a punch.
Aiden has Summer pulled onto his lap in one chair, Kian is beside them with his laptop facing me, Eli and Sage are wearing those under-eye patches looking as serious as ever on a video call, and Cole and Sebastian are half asleep but still present.
“What the hell is this? An intervention?” I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. I walk to the kitchen, hoping the movement will distract me from the suffocating tension. I come back with a BioSteel, but when I look up, they’re still there, watching me. It’s like I’m on trial.
“It is,” Summer says quietly, but it feels like a slap.
Before I can ask what she’s talking about, Aiden speaks. “We’re worried about you, D.”
“Your lifestyle isn’t sustainable.” That’s Eli.
“We want to show you we’re all here for you. All of us are present in any way you need, because your health matters,” Kian says. That sounds like some bullshit he read off a pamphlet.
It’s an ambush is what it is.
I’m glaring at him as he’s sitting there wearing sunglasses and holding an ice pack to his head. He should be the last person giving this speech.
Cole pipes up. “Hockey isn’t the same without you.”
“Coach hasn’t smiled once since you got suspended,” adds Sebastian.
I scoff. “Coach hasn’t smiled ever. I’m not sure why you all wasted your time, but this isn’t something I need. I haven’t had more than beer since I found out about the test, and the weed was a onetime thing. Besides, Kian was getting just as hammered, and no one has an issue with that.”
Their somber expressions don’t change. What the fuck is happening?
“We’re not here because of the drinking or the weed. We see how much not having hockey is affecting you and we don’t want you to fall down some reclusive hole,” Summer says.
I know she’s worried about me. They all are.
But what we have here is important to me, and I wouldn’t ruin it by revealing all these messed-up parts of myself now that it’s already too late.
No one wants a broken person around. That’s why alcohol has helped me piece things back together, so I could always be the Dylan they wanted—the one who never adds to the weight they’re already carrying.
I was trying to be a friend, an escape for everyone, even if it meant I could never escape myself.
I’d be that for them forever because that’s what people need.
Not another reason to be depressed. Not another burden.
I feel my jaw tighten, the pressure building in my chest. I can’t let them see me like this.
“Well, this was great, but I don’t want to hear it.” I knew this would happen. I fucking called it. The moment I stopped masking it, reality came crashing through.
“You’re going to have to,” says Aiden. “Coach thinks he can get you back, but you can’t risk it this time.”
The room feels like it’s closing in under the weight of their expectations. I swallow hard, trying to hold it together, but I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend everything’s fine.
“I won’t,” I say.
“You already did,” he says, harsher this time. “You have to figure your shit out for good.”
Summer pulls away from a heated Aiden to hand me a white card that says the name of a therapist who works at our sports clinic. “If you can’t talk to us, talk to someone else. Someone who can help. There’s no pressure.”
I take the card and mutter a thanks that doesn’t sound the least bit appreciative. However, none of them force me to stay. They let me go, and I step straight into my shower.
Here, I don’t have to pretend I’ve got it all figured out.
When I was a kid, whenever my dad came home after a business trip, my mom would rush me into the bathroom and turn on the shower.
“The steam is good for your skin,” she’d say, her voice a mix of urgency and comfort.
“You can be as quiet or as loud as you want in here.” Then she’d promise she’d be right back, and the door would click shut behind her.
After a while, I understood what she was doing.
I found myself stepping into the shower more often.
By the time I would come out, my dad was gone, and my mom would be in the living room, crying into her clenched fists.
I’m not sure if the card I tossed on my desk can help sort all that out. Especially when I don’t think it ever ended. But what I do know is that I won’t let my friends worry about me. I’ll do whatever it takes to get reinstated.