4. Jax #2
“You leaving?” Griffin steps into my path, blocking my exit. He’s got a girl glued to his side, sucking on his neck like she’s a vampire and he’s her next meal.
“Yeah,” I grunt .
“Missing out, bro. I’m sure Misty here would be down to share.”
The girl detaches her lips from his neck long enough to correct, “Missy.” Her gaze flicks my way, running up and down my broad six-foot-four frame before smirking lasciviously. “The more, the merrier.”
She reaches out to touch my arm, and I shift so her hand falls short. Why the fuck do girls think they have the right to touch you? If I did that to her, I’d be hauled into the police station under sexual assault charges.
“Maybe some other time.” Or never.
Unfazed, Griff winks at me as he hauls her off, the two of them disappearing into the crowd and granting me free passage to the exit.
I’m already socialed out for the entire year.
Walking into the house, I drop my keys onto the small table by the door before stopping in my tracks at the faint glow from the TV.
Stepping into the doorway, I pause. Dylan is sitting on the couch, pizza box open on the coffee table, her legs tucked under her.
She’s focused, eyes locked on the screen where game footage plays— our game footage from last season.
I remember this game against Blackharbor.
The forward line is currently on the ice, Ethan leading a rush.
She’s not just watching it, though—she’s studying it. Leaning forward slightly like she’s memorizing every play, every movement with that same look of focused concentration she wears on the ice.
With her distracted, I allow myself a moment to take her in.
She’s casually dressed in sweats and an oversized T-shirt, her feet bare and hair scraped back into a messy bun on the top of her head.
There’s not a stitch of makeup on her face.
In fact, I haven’t seen her wear makeup once.
It’s not what I’m used to when it comes to girls.
Most of the girls that hang around the team are dolled up to the nines in skirts short enough to intentionally show off whatever color G-string they are wearing and a face caked with enough makeup that you wouldn’t have a hope of recognizing them without it.
Even most female athletes put on makeup when they aren’t at practice or in the sports center. But not Dylan.
She must feel my eyes on her as her head snaps toward me. For a second, she stares, like a deer caught in the headlights. Then she moves. Quickly and efficiently, she grabs the pizza box and the remote, planning to run for it.
“You don’t have to go.” The words are out before I’ve fully thought them through.
She pauses, frowning slightly.
I shrug, stepping farther into the room. “It’s your house too. You don’t have to hide.”
Still frozen in place, pizza box in hand and remote pointed at the TV, her gaze flicks over my shoulder.
“It’s just me,” I tell her. “The others are still out. Probably will be for a while longer.” I don’t know why I say that .
I have no idea when the others will be home.
For all I know, Finn has picked up some girl and is bringing her back here as we speak.
Ethan will stay at the bar until the last of the team heads out, and who the fuck knows with Kyle.
She hesitates for a second longer, and I expect her to grab the last of her belongings and leave. But then she exhales, slowly places the pizza box back on the table, as if she’s liable to change her mind at any second, and sinks down onto the sofa.
Cautiously, as though approaching a wild animal, I move to sit on the chair across from her. An awkward silence settles between us. Lifting my chin toward the screen, I ask her, “This what you do every night? Watch game footage?”
She looks at me, her expression unreadable. “I do whatever I have to do to be the best.” Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it. Like she feels she has to defend herself. Justify her actions.
I nod. I mean, I get it. We all watch game footage. Maybe not every night, but the guys and I frequently sit down to review tapes when the season gets underway. Truth be told, if I were joining a new team, I’d be doing the same thing she is.
Leaning back in the seat, I spread my legs, posture relaxed, as I shift my focus to the television. “Last season, huh?”
She pauses momentarily, and I feel her eyes on me before she presses play, relaxing—although not as much as before—into the sofa.
The footage resumes, the game back in play. Every so often, she pauses it, pointing out moves or plays.
“See here?” Ethan has just sped down the ice, weaving past two defensemen like they don’t exist. Finn trails a few paces behind, perfectly positioned for the pass that never comes. Instead, Ethan cuts too close to the net and takes a desperate shot, which the goalie deflects with ease.
Dylan’s finger is pointed at the screen. “Ethan’s great on the rush, but he hesitates for just a second too long before passing. It gives the defense time to adjust. Finn should have had that puck, and the team would have been up early in the game.”
Not waiting for any comment or retort from me, she presses play on the remote, and the game continues.
Nothing in particular stands out until the puck ricochets off the boards, skidding toward where Reed is camped out on the blue line, stick raised for a slap shot.
However, he hesitates, his eyes fixed on a defender instead of the puck.
By the time he adjusts, it’s too late, and the opposing team clears it.
Pausing, Dylan rewinds, replaying Reed’s hesitation in slow motion.
I can’t look away as she stares captivated at the screen, her head tilted and lips slightly parted, drinking in everything that’s happening.
“Kyle’s got a strong shot, but he doesn’t always read the ice well enough to know where the puck will end up,” she accurately deduces, talking mostly to herself rather than me, before absently pressing play again.
While the game unfolds, I watch her, not the TV.
She’s sharp. Scary sharp. It’s not just that she sees everything; it’s that she knows how to fix it.
Knows how to exploit every weakness like she’s playing chess while everyone else is still figuring out checkers.
She’s breaking down our game with the precision of someone who’s lived and breathed hockey her entire life.
And suddenly, I know. She’s going to make the roster.
There’s no way Coach is benching her. She’s too good. Too valuable.
I glance back at the screen before she can catch me staring, but my thoughts are spinning.
She might be good— great— but she’s still a girl.
She doesn’t have the strength to take a hit from someone like Reed, let alone Ethan.
Or me. And if the other teams catch wind that we’ve got a girl on the ice?
They’ll go after her. They’ll break her.
That’s if Reed or the other guys don’t get to her first. The way they talked tonight—it wasn’t just locker room bravado.
It was a warning. Unease settles in my stomach as I watch her dissect another play.
Because no matter how good she is, no matter how sharp her instincts are, I can already see the cracks forming.
This team isn’t ready for her, and if Coach puts her on the roster, it won’t just be the other teams trying to tear her apart—it’ll be us.