36. Dylan
DYLAN
Griffin had no idea the tornado of emotions he elicited when he gifted me those tickets.
Nostalgia hit me with the force of a Mack truck.
I’d instantly been overwhelmed with memories of attending past games, wearing my dad’s jersey and cheering him and the team on, and after a year of avoiding anything pro hockey, I’d suddenly been itching to watch my dad’s team once more.
I should have known being here, watching them play without him, would be bittersweet.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved seeing my dad’s team out there on the ice—like old times.
They absolutely dominated their opponents, but seeing someone else in my dad’s position was hard.
Even harder was looking up to the family box where my mom and I would sit, and knowing she wasn’t there.
That she’d never be there again. Not because she wouldn’t be welcome.
She was as integrated into the pro-hockey scene as much as my dad, and has—had—close friends in many of the WAGs.
They tried initially, bringing over food, checking in, trying to coax my mom out of the house, but nothing worked. She fell deeper and deeper into a pit of grief and loneliness until no one else in the world existed. Not even me.
A nudge on my shoulder interrupts my thoughts, and I blink up at Jax. “Where did you just go?” His brows are creased with concern, and I know I’m giving too much away. He’s been watching me closely the entire game, sensing something is off and trying to figure it out.
Shaking my head, I give my best attempt at a normal smile.
“Nowhere.” I notice everyone is piling out of the rows, toward the exit, now that the game is over.
Across the rink, the seats are all basically empty, only Timberwolves fans still lingering behind, prolonging their celebration. “We should probably move.”
We file out of the row and into the concourse. Needing a moment to gather myself, I point toward the sign for the women’s bathroom. “I’ll be just a sec.”
However, before I can duck inside, I’m whirled around, my back hitting the wall beside the door. “What the?—”
“What’s wrong?” Griffin demands, oblivious or uncaring to the fact that he’s caging me in, in a concourse full of people.
“Nothing!”
His insightful stare scours my face. “Liar.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, trying and failing to push him back a step.
It’s like trying to move a brick wall. Huffing out a breath when he shows no signs of letting me go until I give him something, I lick my dry lips before admitting, “Hockey was something me and my dad shared.” Unable to meet his piercing blue eyes as I reveal such a fragile, broken fragment of myself, I shift my gaze to the side, staring at the faceless strangers walking past as I confess, “He…died last year and this was the first game I’ve been to without him. ”
Gentle yet firm fingers capture my jaw as Griffin moves closer. His body heat wraps around me like a warm caress, his arm encasing my waist. Griffin is typically so rigid, so shut down from any real emotion, that it’s a surprise to see this level of empathy from him.
He directs my face toward his and waits patiently until I muster the courage to meet his gaze. We’re so close now that the world beyond him ceases to exist. His eyes hold mine captive, deep, endless pools calling to me, drawing me in until blue is all I see.
Griffin is all I see.
His fingers trail down my throat, his hand wrapping around the base of my neck as his lips connect with mine. It’s not a typical Griffin kiss, brimming with possession and dominance. It’s soft, coaxing. It’s exactly what I need—reassuring and bolstering without expecting too much.
My lips move against his, our tongues meeting in languid strokes. The usual chemistry that always seems to exist between us simmers, but unlike every other time, it doesn’t snowball until all I can think about is getting us naked as fast as humanly possible.
This kiss isn’t about uncontrollable passion or inexpressible desire. It’s about more. It speaks to the deeper connection forming between us. This bond that I didn’t ask for, didn’t want, didn’t think I needed, but suddenly find myself immensely grateful for.
“I’ll be waiting right here,” he murmurs when we break apart, still so close that his breath is warm against my cheek. “Take as long as you need.”
His gaze lingers on me until the bathroom door closes between us.
I move to stand in front of the sinks, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Grief clings to me, thick and cloying. It’s written in the lines at the corners of my lips and in the darker green of my eyes—like a shadow has been cast, blotting out the slightly more vibrant color I used to see when looking in the mirror.
Still, today was a milestone. An achievement—in a disgustingly sad, depressing way.
There was a time, right after my dad’s tragic and untimely death, that I thought I’d never step foot on the ice again.
I’d wanted to pack it all in. I’d stared at my skates for weeks, resenting them as if they were to blame for the fact I was now all alone in the world.
It hadn’t helped that I was riding the bench at NSU, and it had felt like everything Dad and I had worked toward was for nothing.
I’d already been looking at my future in professional hockey through a gloomy lens.
My father’s death felt like the final nail in the coffin.
The sign I’d been looking for that I should accept the reality that I’d never have a true position on an NHL team.
It was actually Bear who helped me realize that hockey was all I had left of my dad now, and that when I’m on the ice, stick in hand and puck whizzing toward me, is when I’m closest to him. Now, I swear I feel his presence with me whenever I’m out there. I live for those moments.
Closing my eyes, I work to do the same now. He might no longer be out on the ice but that doesn’t mean he can’t still be here with me. That he wasn’t watching his team from the sidelines, a spectator much like myself.
My father and hockey are synonymous. I used to believe you couldn’t have one without the other.
Without my father, there could be no hockey.
But now, hockey is the only tether I have left to him.
Not just playing hockey, but watching it, talking about it.
It’s how I keep the memory of him alive, especially because I’ve worked so hard to separate myself from his legacy.
I can’t talk about him directly for fear that it will raise unwanted questions, but I can talk about the thing he loved most in the world—after me and my mother.
I snap my eyes open at the sound of the door opening.
A little girl comes running in, wearing a Timberwolves jersey, and her dark hair neatly styled in pigtails.
She rushes straight over to the sinks, stretching onto her tiptoes to reach the tap before sticking a stuffed wolf toy under the stream of water.
“Oh, I don’t know if he’s supposed to get wet.” I cringe as the water seeps into the toy’s fur. I have the same stuffed animal in my bedroom at my parents’ house, so I know they are cheaply made, mass-produced, and I have no idea how they hold up against water.
Seemingly unbothered, the little girl looks up at me through the mirror. Still drowning her wolf beneath the water, she grins at me. “Hi.”
The door flies open behind us, bouncing off the tiled walls with a crack as a red-haired woman marches in, wearing the same jersey as the little girl. “Aurora,” she says in exasperation. “What have I told you about running off.”
“But, Mommy,” the little girl argues. “Wolfie got sticky. He needed a bath.”
“And you should have waited for me to come with you, not gone off on your own.” The woman approaches her daughter, grimacing when she spots the soaking wet soft toy before taking it from her daughter’s hand and attempting to salvage the situation.
Aurora immediately turns her attention to me. “Are you a Timb-a-wolves fan?” I smile at her inability to say Timberwolves. I’m guessing she’s maybe four or five and hasn’t quite figured out how to get her mouth around the word yet.
“I am.” I gesture toward her jersey. “I’m guessing you are too.”
She nods emphatically. “My daddy is on the team.” She turns around so I can see the name Astor written across the back.
“Your dad is Logan Astor? ”
She practically beams with pride. “Yup. Well, one of them, but my other two daddies don’t play hockey.”
“Oh.” I honestly don’t know what to say to that. Is this little girl telling me she’s got three dads? I mean, obviously, biologically, she doesn’t. Is one of them her biological dad, and then the other two are…what, exactly?
My gaze slides to her mother.
“Really, Aurora,” the woman sighs. “This poor woman doesn’t want to know the complicated state of our family.”
Except, if it’s what I think it might be—that this woman is with three different men—I really, really do.
“It’s fine,” I tell her, before holding out my hand toward her. “I’m Dylan.”
Her returning smile is friendly. “I’m Riley, and this is Aurora.”
“My daddy really is Logan,” Aurora interjects, her bottom lip pushing out in a pout. “People don’t believe me sometimes when I tell them.”
I crouch down in front of the little girl. “Well, I believe you. My daddy used to be a Timberwolf too.”
Her eyes go wide. “He did?”
“Yup. In fact, he played alongside your daddy. I even remember meeting your dad after one of their games. He seemed like a pretty cool guy.”
“He is. He’s the best,” she says with such love and enthusiasm. “But not more than my other daddies. They are all the best.”
I chuckle. “I bet they are.”
She tilts her head to one side, thoughtful. “Your daddy doesn’t play anymore?”
My responding smile is soft. Sad. “Not anymore. He, uh, retired. ”
Glancing up at her mother, she asks, “What does that mean?”