5. Dylan
DYLAN
The first day I walked in here and saw him, I nearly turned around and left. I hadn’t expected anyone else to be up at this hour, and I definitely wasn’t thrilled about being alone in the same room as one of the guys from the team.
However, he barely spared me a glance as I stood frozen in the doorway in indecision, and after a momentary debate, I marched over to the treadmill. I knew to be wary, but no way was I letting this team keep me out of the weights room.
I deliberately left my earbuds out, not trusting that he wouldn’t ambush me when I was distracted with my workout, but from the corner of my eye, I’d watched while he finished his sets in the weights area before walking out. All without even seeming to realize I was there .
Since then, he’s ignored me, and I’ve ignored him, and it’s been…
fantastic, really. It sounds like I’m insane, to consider being left alone is as good as it gets, but for me, it’s the truth.
I couldn’t even set foot in the gym at Northern Summit without being hassled and jeered.
When that didn’t put me off, the guys had escalated, smearing peanut butter over the weights bar, messing with the machines, and even removing all the weight plates from the room.
Once, they actually managed to rig the treadmill so it wouldn’t stop when I pressed the button.
And when I tried to slow it down, it sped up until I was going so fast I thought I would pass out.
They played it all off as normal hazing, of course. But I knew. I could see it in their eyes. They didn’t want me there, and they were willing to do whatever it took to get me to leave.
Unfortunately, they eventually succeeded.
And not in a way I ever thought they would.
Shaking my head to dispel those thoughts, I focus on my workout, first jumping onto the treadmill. I start with a warm-up jog to loosen my muscles and get the blood pumping before amping up the pace until I’m breathing hard and sweat sticks to my black sports bra.
I might be comfortable wearing my earbuds now, but I keep one eye on Griffin as he goes through his rounds of squats before moving on to bench presses.
He’s shirtless, wearing only loose basketball shorts that hug his trim waist before falling to his knees.
With the angle of the weights bench, I have the perfect view of his hard, sculpted chest, the straining of his biceps as he pushes his arms straight into the air.
There isn’t an ounce of fat on him, the ridges of every muscle plain to see and begging to be licked.
It doesn’t help that, judging by the amount of weight he’s lifting, he could easily bench-press me. There’s just something so hot about a guy who could effortlessly lift you over his head.
On day three of this peaceful arrangement of ours, I noticed he had his nipples pierced, a loop hanging from each of the taut nubs.
On day five, I discovered he had a tattoo—a long, thin line of some design I’ve never quite been able to make out, running from his armpit to the waistband of his shorts.
I’m staring at that little strip of black ink now, trying to decipher the lines and squiggles. I’m so caught up in working it out that I don’t realize he’s stopped lifting the weights bar.
Or that he’s staring directly at me.
My red-from-exertion cheeks turn beetroot, and I snap my gaze away, staring steadfastly at the treadmill screen as the miles slowly tick up.
God, I can’t believe he caught me looking. How embarrassing!
I hope he doesn’t think I’m interested now. Because I’m not. Hockey guys—maybe even athletes in general—are not my type, and my number one life rule is officially do not date people you are on the same team as.
It’s the same as not dating your co-worker.
It gets messy…and fast.
Been there, done that, got the mental scars to prove it.
Doesn’t mean I can’t quietly admire from afar. From a distance where my heart and judgment aren’t at risk. Besides playing hockey at a professional level far superior to what I’d achieve on the girls’ team, all the eye candy is the only other benefit to my situation.
Except for when they all whip off their towels after a shower in the locker room.
If you ever wondered if a girl could see too much dick, the answer is yes .
Yes, you most certainly can have too much dick in your face, especially arrogant hockey player dick.
The juvenile idiots grinding their hips like that’s going to entice me to jump aboard .
I deliberately force myself not to look Griffin’s way until I reach the five-mile mark—the length of my typical morning runs. Then, wanting to be sure the coast is clear and he isn’t lurking around waiting for me to finish, I cast a surreptitious glance around the gym.
Finding it empty, I sigh in relief. Griffin must have finished and left while I was beating myself up. I’d worry I’d scared him out of the room, but a guy like that…no way he was put off by a little awkward gawking.
I may not know much about Griffin, except that he’s one of the best college hockey goalies in the country and a strange enigma.
He seems to me like he’s a bit of a loner, but he partakes in the locker room banter and occasionally goes out with the guys.
There’s always something… sharp beneath his exterior, though.
Something calculating. Predatory. Like he’s the apex animal, and we’re all just mice dancing to his tune until he decides to snap our necks.
Still, his self-confidence is on par with every other Division One hockey player I’ve ever met, so I don’t stress that he’ll have read more into my staring than that it was a passing glance—a moment of distraction.
Which is precisely what it was.
Relaxing fully for the first time since I arrived at the sports center, I finish up on the treadmill and move on to the weights portion of my workout.
After a long practice, during which I was once again ignored by every single member of the team—quite a feat for Finn since we were paired together for drills—I’m off to my first class at BSU.
Working toward a double major in sports management and sports analytics means that every moment not spent training is spent in the classroom, studying, or completing some assignment.
I knew it would be a lot when I took both on at the beginning of my sophomore year, but since a college player getting into the NHL is around one in four thousand, the chances of a woman making it into the league are inordinately less likely.
In fact, the word most commonly used when I express my goals is impossible .
However, I find I quite enjoy the challenge of overcoming impossible odds.
Much like becoming the only girl in the country to make it onto a boys’ Division One college hockey team.
I might have had a helping hand from Bear this season, but I made it onto the NSU team all on my own.
In fact, I went out of my way to ensure it was only my skills and ability that were taken into consideration when they held tryouts for the team.
Since then, my determination to shove it in everyone’s face who says it isn’t possible has only grown.
Still, I’m not an idiot. I know I might be fighting to achieve something that will never happen.
I’m prepared for failure, or as prepared as one can be when they have their dream ripped out from beneath them.
But if I can’t be a hockey player, the next best thing is to work with them. With the teams. The league.
As a woman in male sports, no matter what career path I choose, it will be an uphill battle.
However, if I can impress them before I have to sit down for an interview and they realize I’m actually a girl— yes, I totally plan on using my gender-neutral name to get ahead because a woman needs to use every tool at her disposal to get what she wants in this world—then hopefully they’ll see past the tits and lack of a dick and realize I’m more fucking capable than half the men they interview.
Of course, if I can’t even get a team of boys to let me play alongside them, what hope do I have of ever having a professional relationship with any of them?
Still, the silent treatment I’ve been getting from the Steelhawks is a giant leap in the right direction compared to my old team.
Although I’m not sure how much longer that will hold up.
While I’d happily take an entire season of them icing me out so long as they’re willing to play alongside me, I highly doubt I will be so lucky.
Especially once Roster Day rolls around.
The twisting in my gut says this is the calm before the storm. I can only hope this one doesn’t completely destroy me.
My morning classes are uneventful—mostly the professors explaining the agenda for the semester and what is expected from us. I notice some gazes darting my way, hushed whispers behind hands, but I largely ignore them. It’s nothing I’m not used to.
I’m packing up my things after my Data Visualization for Athletes class when a shadow falls over my desk. Lifting my head, I have to crane my neck to look up into the face of the man towering over me. Except, when I finally meet his eyes, he’s not staring at my face.
No. His gaze slowly rises over my body, lingering longer than is appropriate on my hips and chest before finally— finally— coming to rest on my face. His expression is less than impressed.
“So you’re the girl who thinks she can hack it with the boys.”
Ah, so it’s one of those conversations. What fun.
My gaze flicks from his below-average-looking face to the two equally large and intimidating buddies at his back, both staring at me with curious skepticism.
I don’t recognize any of their faces, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t players on the team.
Or they could play a different sport at BSU.
Equally, they could just be your regular run-of-the-mill, misogynistic douchebags.
Whoever they are, they’ve picked the wrong girl to mess with.