Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
DYLAN
I WAKE UP with a smile. A real one. It’s been a long fucking while since that’s happened.
Sierra’s green eyes burned like embers, alight with something I’d never seen before. She even took off that stupid anklet Justin gave her. I hated that thing because she never needed a good luck charm. It’s all her, and I’m glad she’s realized that.
We’ve been close before, closer than most people are on a daily basis, but this time, everything shifted.
I’ve memorized her warmth, her softness, the delicate way she fits in my arms and on my lap.
I needed her in every way I could have her.
And now I can’t drive away the hole that dug deeper in my chest as I gave her what she needed. What I needed.
But as I open my eyes, the smile melts clean off my face. There’s a raw ache of emptiness, like a cave wall that’s been eroded by the constant drip of water. Gray, hollow, abandoned.
My bed is empty, save for the lingering scent of cherry on my pillow. The new pillows. The ones that don’t even smell like me yet hold on to her scent like it’s their fucking job.
It nearly guts me to think she got up before me and the first thing she wanted to do was leave.
It makes me think of all the times I’ve been relieved to find myself alone after a night with a girl, or when I’d leave their dorms because that’s what they wanted.
That’s what they always wanted. No one wants to stick around, and I’d never ask them to. So, why does this feel so different?
I grab my phone from the dresser and find an email from Lidia about the Lake Placid competition next weekend, along with texts about another party.
Sorority girls, my frat, Sampson—I ignored all of them yesterday because none of it mattered.
I used to answer those texts, be where everyone else was, hearing the chants of Double D!
and fading into who they wanted me to be, until the alcohol lost its taste.
I head to the bathroom, but the roughness in my throat doesn’t ebb even after I brush my teeth. The house is empty because Aiden left for Toronto this morning, and Summer’s at Iona.
Kian’s got class all day, so he’s going straight to the rink for practice.
It’s a shorter one, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be any less exhausted from the jumps for skating later.
But that’s a nonissue. I’m going to do both, and I won’t let anything stop me.
Not even the way I’m sweating before I even get to the rink.
Cole slaps a hand on my back. “You doing okay, Mini Cap?”
“Mini Cap?”
“Right, you don’t know about that.” He laughs. “We’ve been calling you Mini Cap since the whole captaincy thing, you know, ’cause it was a small amount of time, therefore, mini.”
I knock him aside with my shoulder, and he feigns an injury on the side of the rink. But his words stay with me, even as everyone else shows up. There’s a dynamic here that I’ve missed, like coming home for the holidays only to find your room was turned into a home gym.
“What’s Kilner’s first name?” one of the guys asks, signing a birthday card.
“I thought it was Coach,” Kian says, scratching his head.
“Donovan, I got good news for you.” Coach approaches us on the ice. “You’re back for one game next week against Yale. We’ll need to bring our A-game and rein in the emotions we have for them.”
What he means is, Don’t lose your shit. Before this summer, I never stepped foot in Yale without wearing a garlic necklace.
Any girls I know from there came back to our place or stayed as hookups at Myth.
After they trashed our campus at the beginning of this year, our rivalry has gotten worse.
I got ejected for roughhousing and unsportsmanlike conduct.
Bullshit, if you ask me. I couldn’t care less, because that day I was waiting on a call from my mom.
To hear her say she left, and we didn’t need to deal with my dad anymore.
It never came.
“Will do, Coach,” I say, my strained voice making me cough. Everyone looks at me.
“Are you sick?” Kian asks, and the entire team is backing up. None of us can afford to be sick, not with the ECAC games coming up. I’m exhausted, but I’d never admit that, or that, for the first time, I’m not excited about a rivalry game.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, giving Kian a look that shuts him up. Coach doesn’t say anything. He blows his whistle and we’re off doing drills.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kian asks, reaching to touch my forehead. I slap his hand away.
“Just tired. I had a long night.”
Kian snorts. “Yeah, I heard. You should have seen my jaw on the floor when I bumped into Sierra as she was leaving. I didn’t know the girl could blush like that.”
I didn’t either. Not until I was buried so deep, she hid her face in my neck.
We’re half an hour in when my vision blurs. I’m swaying, leaning on my stick more than my skates. The whistle blows again, and I think my head’s going to explode.
I see Kilner’s shoes before I hear his voice. “You’re sick.”
“It’s probably allergies. I’m fine.” It hurts to blink.
“You don’t have allergies. And you can barely lift your fucking head,” he barks.
I force myself to stand tall, but Coach watches with that unimpressed look, seeing right through my act. The man’s a wizard.
“Get off my ice and get some rest. Or I’m taking you off the first line for the Yale game.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I’ll go. I just need to tell Lidia before—”
“I’ll tell her. Just leave before you get my rookies sick. They aren’t built like you idiots were.”
That’s true. Freshman year was not for the weak, mostly because of Kian and me.
Kian slides up beside me. “Coach, I should go with Dylan to take care of him. So, I can’t do the laundry today.”
Kilner watches him. “Fine, you both are done for the day. Go home.”
“Actually, Coach, you can keep him—” The rest of my sentence is muffled in Kian’s palm as he shoves me off the ice.
WHY ARE GOOD people like me punished for our good deeds?
Though even if I had an answer to the question, I would still repeat everything that happened yesterday. More than a few times.
Kian walks into my room. “I made you soup. Summer said it was disgusting, but I threw a bunch of hot sauce in it, so you won’t even taste anything else.” He’s carrying a tray with a vase and a a sunflower, like he’s my mother.
“It’s bright green,” I say, staring at Kian’s bowl of soup.
“The broccoli and spinach really dominated the color. And taste. And smell.”
“Thanks. Now do me a favor and toss it out the window.”
Kian scoffs. “I busted my ass in that kitchen for you, and this is the thanks I get?”
“If you love it so much, drink it yourself.”
He makes a face, then puts the tray on my bedside table. “Yeah, no, it tastes like spicy sewer water.” Kian sits on the edge of my bed. “How’s Sierra?”
I’m sure he knows about yesterday. It’s not like we were being quiet. But he isn’t being invasive, as usual. He watches me with sympathy.
My head is pounding, and my bedsheets feel like the warmth of her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“’Cause she’s not here.”
I shrug. “I don’t usually have girls stay over. You know that.” Even putting her in that category feels wrong.
“It’s okay, buddy, you still have me,” he says, fluffing my pillow.
I must have a bad cold because I say, “Yeah, at least I have you.”
Kian beams. “Want to have a movie marathon? I’ve got the director’s cut,” he suggests. Kian’s ritual when he’s sick, aside from complaining about it, is watching Twilight: Extended Edition or Shrek 2 in the living room, where everyone can see him act like he’s dying.
“I should sleep,” I say, and he nods before clicking my door shut behind him.
Hours later, my eyes open from a soft touch on my forehead. That’s when I see her, like a dream. Barefaced, hair in a braid, wearing one of her scarves.
My heart stops. “Hey.”
Sierra runs a palm over my cheek, almost guilty. “Did I get you sick?”
“Took one for the team,” I say, and she just stares, probably thinking our extra training or our shower the other night has something to do with it. It might’ve, but I’d never say that to her. “You didn’t do anything, Sierra.”
“Lidia said practice was canceled. I thought after last night you regret—”
“Sierra,” I cut her off, knowing if she finished, I wouldn’t be able to handle it. “There is nothing about last night that I regret. You would have known that if you stayed.”
I don’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but it does, and it makes her green eyes go wide.
“I should have told you I was leaving. But we’re not—”
“It’s fine. I’m used to it,” I say, brushing it off. “But I am sorry that I fucked up our training schedule.”
Sierra’s hand drops from my face. “You think that’s what I care about? I’ve seen how hard you push yourself. It’s ridiculous what you’re putting yourself through. You need the rest.”
“I want to do it.” I sound defensive. “Coach got me on first line for the Yale game.”
She smiles faintly. “You deserve it.”
“You should come. It’s a home game,” I say. “Practically your duty as my partner.”
Sierra raises a brow. “Yeah? Some unwritten rule for figure skater–hockey player duos?”
“Exactly,” I say. “I think you have to wear my jersey or something too.”
She nods. “Guess so. I’ll even call you Captain from my rinkside seats.”
I deadpan, tackling her onto my bed. Sierra bursts into laughter. I squeeze her sides until she begs me to stop. When I finally do, we’re both breathing hard, inches apart. I want to kiss her.
But I won’t get her sick. And I know if I kiss her, I won’t be able to stop. So, instead of feeling her lips against mine, I press a kiss to her forehead.
We sit up again, and the air grows awkward. But then, Sierra straightens, like she’s just decided on something. “Well, get better. Lidia’s not going to show mercy when you’re back,” she says. “See you on the ice, partner.”
Then she’s gone so fast, I’m left blinking in her absence
My cold feels worse by the time I drag myself out of bed to drink water. I’m in the kitchen when the doorbell rings. I don’t answer it, but everyone in the house seems to have the same intention.
Wrapped in my blanket, shuffling to the door in Kian’s Freudian slip slippers, I open the door to no one. Better not be those damn kids playing Ding-Dong Ditch. Kian and I will have to scare them again.
As I start to close it, a black car speeding off catches my eye. My gaze drops to a white bag on the step. I bring it inside and extract a container of chicken noodle soup with a note taped to it with neat handwriting.
It’s from a can. Don’t flatter yourself.
I bark out a laugh, and when I’m about to put aside the brown bag, I notice something else inside. It’s a scarf.
This one’s from scratch. Made it with my feet. ;)
Instantly, I pull out my phone to text her.
Dylan: Not at all flattered. Thank you for the care package.
Sierra: No idea what you’re talking about. Time to get that brain checked grandpa.
Then, two whole minutes later:
Sierra: You’re welcome.