11. Dylan #2
“Your mom was a godsend, of course,” Bear continues. “Supported his dream no matter the sacrifices.” My throat goes dry at the mention of my mom. I really should try to call her this week…assuming she’ll even answer the phone.
“But your dad,” Bear shakes his head, eyes glinting with that familiar fondness, “he never backed down from it. Never complained. Never blamed you for making it more difficult for him to reach his dream. If anything, you were his reason for fighting as hard as he did. He poured everything he had into hockey, into being the best. He fought for it every day.”
I swallow hard, emotions I’ve buried deep for so long now threatening to bubble over and completely destroy me.
“Sounds like Dad.” My throat is hoarse, scratchy.
Bear nods. “That drive?” he says, leaning forward slightly on his chair.
“That refusal to give up no matter how much was on his shoulders? No matter the odds? That’s what made him so damn good.
The best I ever coached.” He lets the weight of that settle for a moment before adding with a teasing glint in his eye, “Until now, maybe.”
A laugh escapes me, shaky but real. “Don’t start comparing me to him, Bear. I’m not even close.”
“Not yet, but you’ve got the same fire, D-Girl. You just don’t let up. You’re stubborn as hell, just like he was. And if you keep at it, no one’s gonna touch you.”
His words land somewhere deep inside me, echoing in places I usually try to ignore. I feel it now, though, the connection. If Dad could overcome those odds, if he could carry it all and still become one of the greats, then maybe I can too.
No matter what Kyle and the team throw at me.
The second I step onto Athletes Row, I groan.
It’s barely past nine, but the street looks like a scene from a music video: girls in barely-there dresses totter on sky-high heels, boys whoop and shout with red Solo cups in hand, and every lawn pulses with the heavy bass of a different song.
Someone’s dragged speakers onto their porch, and the thrum of music vibrates in my chest.
I’m so not in the mood for this .
I’d far rather have spent the entire night at Bear’s and avoided this stupid party, and the rest of the team, but that would have raised questions I don’t have suitable answers for.
And the last thing I want anyone looking into is my relationship with the coach.
It’s paramount that everyone believes we have nothing beyond a coach-player relationship, just like everyone else on the team.
With leaden feet, I make my way up the street, skirting around a group of drunk girls yelling at each other before dodging a guy in a football jersey sprinting with a keg hoisted over his shoulder. In jeans, Converse, and an old, well-worn, Timberwolves T-shirt, I’m not even dressed for a party.
By the time I reach our house, it’s clear that we are the epicenter of the chaos. That’s just perfect . I should have expected no less from the Steelhawks hockey team.
Every light blazes downstairs, the windows rattling with the music. The yard is packed, and there’s a bottleneck at the front door.
Sighing, I trudge up the drive. I wish Wren were here. At least then I’d have one ally. One person I could talk to. We could huddle in a corner of the house and ignore everyone else. I tried inviting her. Alas, while hockey is her thing, parties apparently are not.
I finally squeeze my way through the front door.
Inside, it’s worse . Bodies move together in a writhing mass in what used to be our living room.
The sofas have been shoved against the walls to allow enough space for a makeshift dance floor.
People are pressed into every corner, making out, shouting over the music, and spilling drinks all around themselves.
I am so not having any part in cleaning up this mess.
I scan the room, spotting Ethan leaning against the back wall like a king surveying his court. Jax is beside him, one shoulder pressed against the wall, his focus intent on Ethan—as if he can block out the rest of the room by sheer willpower alone.
Damn, maybe I should ask him if that’s possible. It would be a convenient skill to have right now.
As if sensing my eyes on him, he glances over.
Our gazes collide, and he stops mid-sentence.
Ethan gives him a quizzical look before following his line of sight until I’m caught in both of their stares.
Gray-blue and deep brown pools act like a vortex, glueing my feet to the floor despite people shuffling past me.
It’s the first time I’ve set eyes on either of them since the lineup was announced, and as my gaze roams over their faces, I try to get a read on their expressions—are they pissed? Resentful? Out for revenge?
After a moment, Jax’s lips curve into the faintest smile, and he lifts his Solo cup in a silent toast. The gesture catches me off guard, and I know I’m wide-eyed as I gape at him. I expected indifference at best, hostility at worst. Not…whatever sort of go you gesture that was.
Confused, my focus shifts to Ethan. He’s as stoic as always, giving nothing away regarding how he feels.
He’s most likely in damage control mode, figuring out how he can stop the team from imploding and ensure everyone focuses on what’s important—the game.
I don’t envy him for having that job, but I’m not about to shrink just to make room for their egos—or make it easier for him to keep the peace.
Dismissing them both, I turn toward the kitchen, but something flashes in my peripheral vision—red hair.
I freeze and scan the crowd, finally spotting Finn in the middle of the dance floor.
He’s holding a plastic cup over his head, his other hand wrapped around the waist of a girl pressed against him, their hips gyrating in time to the beat.
He’s wearing one of those tank tops with the massive arm holes that show more of his toned chest and abs than it hides, the white contrasting beautifully with the black ink visible along his left arm.
I trail the dark swirls until they disappear around the petite blonde pressed up against him.
Her face is turned away from me, so I can’t see who she is, but then she shifts, tilting her face up to his, and I get a clear view. The puck bunny. The one who came up to me in the cafeteria and started the whole Bench Bunny whispers.
My gut twists, and the spot where Finn’s lips met mine in a quick kiss last night burns . A reminder of how foolish I’d be to assume that a kiss meant anything. Finn can’t be trusted. None of them can.
Jaw tight, I shove my way into the kitchen and grab a soda from the counter. It hisses as I pop it open, downing a third of it. It does nothing to calm the heat I can feel in my cheeks. The rage burning in my chest. The embarrassment eating at my core.
Shaking my head, I turn so my back is against the counter and look out over the busy kitchen without taking any of it in. The noise, the lights, the stifling heat of too many bodies packed into one place—it’s too much. Suffocating.
I need air.
Pushing off the counter, I stride toward the back door and out into the night.
A fire burns in the center of the backyard, a circle of chairs surrounding it.
Most of them are occupied by my teammates.
Girls are draped over some of them while others sit and talk, their laughter cutting through the night.
I spot an empty seat on the far side of the fire, but I already know my presence won’t be welcome. Nor am I in the mood to deal with shit about my position on the roster. Instead, I move toward an empty bench to the side of the back door, half hidden in shadows, and sit down, cradling my drink.
The fresh air helps to clear my head, to calm the irritation that had been prickling at my skin.
Irritation at seeing Finn with another girl, that I have no right feeling.
It was one kiss. A one- second touching of lips.
That doesn’t make Finn mine or me his. Nor should I want it to.
And yet, the irrational jealousy I felt at seeing him pressed up against another girl…
“Get a grip of yourself, Dyl,” I mutter frustratingly, shaking my head in disappointment.
Instead of getting lost in my head, I scan the backyard. Couples are tangled in shadowed corners, and there’s a knot of people by the back door. The rest are drawn to the bonfire like moths to a flame.
From where I’m seated, I can see Griffin, cast in firelight on the far side of the flames.
He’s leaning back in his fold-up chair, legs spread, and soda can in hand.
Relaxed for all the world to see. My gaze dips lower, noting the dark colored jeans he’s wearing, paired with black boots, and a matching T-shirt that stretches beautifully across his broad chest. If I squint hard enough, I swear I can make out his nipple rings pressing against the inside of the fabric.
His body is angled toward a group of other players who appear deep in conversation.
However, Griffin is quiet, mostly nodding along or listening to the others.
Every now and then, he says something that makes them laugh, that crooked grin of his making an appearance.
But when he thinks no one is looking, his face changes.
The easy grin slips, and I see him— the real Griffin.
The one I caught a glimpse of in the locker room. The one I sense on the opposite side of the rink when we’re alone.
The one I’m curious to know more about despite every instinct telling me to stay away.
Eventually, he gets up, saying something to the ones he’s with before stalking away.
I trail him with my eyes until he steps outside of the ring of light cast by the fire, swallowed up by shadows.
I squint through the darkness, trying to spot him for a moment longer, before giving up.
He’s probably gone inside to grab a drink or chat with others from the team.
Hell, perhaps he’s gone to find a hookup for the night.
Returning my attention to the fire, I stare into the flames, allowing my thoughts to drift away into nothing until a sudden presence appears at my side.
I stiffen. “You didn’t think I missed you sneaking out of the house, did you?” Griffin’s voice is low, and despite my better judgment, I find myself relaxing, my shoulders dropping from my ears.
I still don’t look at him, keeping my focus on the sparks that occasionally hiss and spit as they rise into the air, gleaming brightly before burning out.
He doesn’t say anything, the two of us falling into a companionable silence. It’s…nice. When was the last time I just sat with someone? No pressure to talk. No tension or hostility tainting the air.
“Shouldn’t you be inside getting your rocks off?” I ask, still not looking at him.
From the corner of my eye, I notice his lips quirk in the hint of a smile. “Nah, not really my thing.”
Finally turning, I arch a brow. “Isn’t it?”
I overhear enough locker room talk to know that it is. Or, at least, he pretends it is. Now, I can’t help but wonder if that’s a part of his mask as well.
He only smirks, but it’s not like the smug ones I saw him give the team earlier. More like, we’re sharing a secret. One I don’t fully understand.
Dropping my stare, I fiddle with the tab on my soda can, debating whether to say anything before finally asking, “So, what’s the damage?”
Griffin raises a thick, blond eyebrow.
“With the team,” I clarify. “How much do they hate me?”
He shrugs, tilting his head from side to side. “Most of them are reserving judgment. They’ve seen how good you are on the ice, but they want to know how you’ll perform in a game situation.”
“If I can hold my own or if I’ll be a weak spot,” I conclude.
He nods in agreement.
Okay, that’s not awful. I can deal with that.
Of course, it’s not the entire team who feel that way. I know for a fact Kyle won’t be so understanding—so accepting of Coach’s decision.
“What about you?” I dare to ask. For some reason, I find myself even more nervous to hear his answer than I was to know what the rest of the team thought.
He’s silent for a long time, intense blue eyes hidden by the darkness boring into me. I can feel his stare raking over my face. Can feel it seeing more than it should. More than I’d like it to.
After what feels like a lifetime, he finally looks away, glancing toward the fire. My stare lingers on his profile a moment longer before I follow his gaze. Most of the team are still sitting around the fire, chatting or making out with whatever girl is in their lap.
He’s silent for so long that I assume he isn’t going to respond. My attention has drifted, the silence dropping over me like a warm blanket as I get lost in the flickering of the flames once more.
Like a ripple in still water, his voice breaks through my trance, low and smooth, like top-shelf bourbon.
“I think you scare them,” he says, not looking at me.
Yet, I sense his entire awareness is attuned to my every move.
He pauses, and I’m about to ask what he means when he turns, stealing the air from my lungs with the intensity in his eyes.
“You scare them because they know you’re better than they will ever be. ”