18. Dylan
DYLAN
Wren rummages through my closet, throwing clothes over her shoulder with a disgusted look on her face. “Seriously, Dyl, do you not own anything that’s not a hoodie, sweats, or leggings?”
“It’s called being comfortable,” I protest from my spot on the bed.
She makes a noise of disagreement. “What are you supposed to wear when you go out?”
“Easy. I don’t go out.”
She sighs, sounding as though she doesn’t quite know what to do with me. “Just as well I brought extras,” she mutters cryptically to herself as she moves to unzip the bag she brought with her.
“I thought we were just going to a bar?” I ask, glancing down at the black leggings and oversized top I have on. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
She gives me a look as though I’m a three-headed alien. “It doesn’t matter where we’re going. It’s a girls’ night out. The rules of girls’ night dictate that you must wear a short-ass dress and heels. ”
It’s my turn to gape at her. “You never mentioned anything about a dress and heels!”
She shrugs. “I am now.” Rummaging through her bag, she pulls out a small, baby-blue dress that looks like it wouldn’t have fit me when I was five, never mind twenty-one. Holding it up in front of me, she glances at it, then me. “This will be perfect.”
“Yeah, perfect to strangle you with,” I snark.
She only laughs as if she thinks I’m joking. I’m not. I grew up watching hockey. Playing hockey. I am all about the violence when necessary, and if Wren comes even one step closer to me with that thing, it will be necessary.
She pulls out another, equally miniature dress, this one red, as well as a pair of silver and a pair of black heels. “Which do you prefer?” she asks.
“Neither, since I’m not changing.”
Her head bobs thoughtfully. “I agree. The black is a bit heavy for your dress. Silver it is.”
She tosses the silver heels on my bed before stripping out of her clothes and shimmying into the skintight number she picked for herself. “What are you doing?” she demands as she pulls it down over her ass. “Get ready!”
“I am,” I insist.
“Dylan.” She sighs in exasperation. “It’ll be fun, I promise.
” Pinning me with pleading eyes, she says, “Do this for me, and I promise we will go somewhere that I know you’re going to love.
” I arch a brow at her. She just pins me with a flat look.
“Don’t and I’m going to pick the loudest, rowdiest club to go to. ”
I groan, my head falling back. “Why am I friends with you?” I mutter, mostly to myself.
She grins, knowing she’s won.
Sighing, I reluctantly drag the horrific ensemble across the bed toward me. “Where is it we’re going anyway? I thought you didn’t like parties. ”
“This is no party, my friend. This is beer, good food, and the best entertainment you can get in Blackstone.”
I give her a skeptical look.
“Okay, fine.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re going to The Stanley.”
I freeze. “The hockey bar on campus?”
Wren grins, hands on her hips. “The very one, and before you start with your Debbie Downer bullshit, Wednesday night is Cup Night which means reruns of classic championship games—the greats like Gretzky, Orr, and Yzerman.”
She spots the flicker of interest before I can hide it.
“See!” she exclaims, pointing a painted fingernail in my direction. “Told you, you’d love it.”
“Drinking a beer and watching some of the best players to ever live on TV? Sounds like my kind of night,” I agree. “But do we really have to dress up?”
“Yes!” she states emphatically. “You’ve got legs for days, woman. Show them off a little!”
I grumble but give in, slipping into the outfit. Wren insists on doing my hair, looking absolutely horrified when I suggest simply tying it back, and applying a minimal but undeniably flattering touch of makeup. When she’s done, I barely recognize myself.
“Damn, I’m good,” Wren says, smirking as she surveys her handiwork.
When we’re ready, we head to The Stanley.
The bar is buzzing with energy when we walk in.
Wren waves to one of the bartenders behind the bar as she leads us to a reserved high-top table right in front of the biggest TV in the room.
“Perks of working here,” she says smugly, before disappearing to order our drinks.
I’ve only taken a few sips of my beer when a ruckus at the door grabs my attention. The rest of the team spills into the bar, loud and boisterous as they claim what are clearly their usual seats along the back wall.
I watch them for a moment, my chest tightening. They’re relaxed, at ease with each other in a way I envy. Despite feeling more a part of the Steelhawks than I ever did the Glaciers, this moment serves as a reminder that I’m still on the outside looking in.
Jax catches my eye and lifts his drink with a smile.
My stomach flips, but before I can react, Finn follows Jax’s gaze across the room to where I’m sitting.
His eyes roam over my legs, lingering just a little too long on the short hemline of my dress before he scowls, wrenching his gaze away as he knocks back his beer.
I roll my eyes and shift my attention to the TV just as the game starts. My breath catches when I realize which one it is—the championship cup game from six years ago. Timberwolves versus Penguins. The night my dad made history with a goal so impossible, it turned him into a legend.
I was at that game. Up in the family box beside my mom, the two of us cheering him on. The bittersweet nostalgia threatens to drown me. Oh, how times have changed. The family I once thought could withstand anything has crumbled in the face of loss and devastation.
Despite the tightness in my chest, I’m hooked to the screen as the game unfolds, watching moments I don’t remember happening and plays I recall like it was only yesterday I was standing in that box watching the Timberwolves go all the way for the first time in twenty-five years.
I’m so invested in what’s happening on screen that I don’t notice Wren has left the table, or that I’m alone, until a familiar presence appears at my shoulder.
I know before I meet those piercing eyes that it’s Ethan. His confident, sure presence is like a beacon. I blink out of the stupor I’ve been in, glancing first at Wren’s empty seat—I vaguely recall her mentioning needing to use the bathroom—before returning my attention to Ethan.
He doesn’t look at me, his attention on the TV as my dad makes a jaw-dropping play.
“He was one hell of a player,” he muses.
Turning back to the screen, I swallow roughly. “Yeah,” I agree softly, my chest tight.
“I met him once.”
That makes me turn in my seat to look at him, eyebrows raised. “You did?”
Ethan nods, his expression wistful. “He made a guest appearance at a summer camp I went to. Spent an entire day with us—running drills, giving pointers. He took the time to talk to every single kid there; even signed all our sticks.” His lips quirk.
“I’ve still got it, actually. I refused to play with it again after that for fear that I’d sweat all over his signature and smear it. ”
I can’t help my soft chuckle.
“Patrick Callahan made us feel like we mattered,” he continues, gaze distant, like he’s back at that day at camp. “Like every single player at that camp had the potential to go all the way to the Stanley Cup.”
My throat tightens, warmth spreading in my chest. That was just like my dad. His love for hockey was infectious, and he wanted to spread it to everyone he came in contact with. He believed in everyone, never tore anyone down.
He was just…perfect.
“You and your friend should come sit with us.” Ethan’s words jolt me out of my trip down memory lane, and I look up to find him already watching me. I slide my gaze to the team’s tables, hesitating. “I don’t want to ruin the mood.”
Ethan leans his forearms on the high-top table, his stormy gaze steady on me. “You’re a part of this team, Dylan,” he says, voice calm but firm. It almost feels like he’s reminding me of that fact.
Before I can tell him that I know that, he continues. “That means more than showing up to practice and giving your all on the ice.”
My brow furrows, lips thinning.
“It means bantering with one another in the locker room. It means going out to celebrate a win or commiserate a loss together—as a team. It means helping one of our own out when they’re in a bind or studying together if someone is falling behind. It’s supporting one another.
“Not everyone will do that for every single player, but it’s showing up as a team . It’s being there for one another. As. A. Team .”
Those gray-blue eyes of his bore into my soul. “So, answer me this, Dylan, are you a part of this team ?”
“They don’t want?—”
Ethan cuts me off, arching his brow as he challenges, “How do you know that?”
I blink, caught off guard by his question.
“You’ve never given them the chance to get to know you,” he states, tone kind but firm. “You don’t talk to anyone in the locker room, don’t stick around after practice. You keep to yourself. And, yeah, I get it. Shit obviously went down with your old team, but we aren’t them.”
His words hit harder than I expect, a quiet truth beneath the surface.
“You showed up out of nowhere, demanding we give you a chance,” he says, his gaze unwavering as it holds mine captive. “But you’ve never given us the same opportunity. Maybe if you actually get to know some of the guys, they’ll surprise you.”
I glance over toward the back of the bar, my gaze settling first on the table Ethan had been sitting at. Jax, Finn, and Griffin are there, leaning back in their seats, beers in hand. They look relaxed, comfortable with each other in a way I’ve never allowed myself to be.
My gaze slides over the players at the other tables until I spot Kyle sitting with a couple of third-line guys.
I recognize some of their faces as ones that usually have a sneer fixed in place when staring in my direction during practice, and I don’t miss the smug look on Kyle’s face as he says something that makes the others laugh.