44. Dylan #2
Of course, Kyle chooses that moment to walk past. He scoffs, looking between us, seeing how we’re both leaning into one another.
No doubt he can taste the pheromones in the air.
God knows, I can. His lip curls in disgust before he addresses Finn.
“So, this is what eleven years of friendship amounts to, huh?”
Shaking his head, Finn simply says, “I’m not doing this with you, man.”
Kyle makes a noise in the back of his throat. “What happened to bros before hoes?”
The insult rolls off my back, but Finn straightens, turning fully to face Kyle. “What happened to focusing on the sport? The love of the game?”
“The love of the game isn’t enough to get me onto a pro team. I thought we had a dream—you and me playing pro hockey together.”
“We do,” Finn argues, wincing before correcting himself. “We did.”
Leaning in, Kyle hisses, “That was never going to happen with her in my spot. You think second-line picks get drafted?” he scoffs. “’Cause they don’t.”
“So instead of improving your game, you chose to publicly humiliate her off the team?” Finn frowns. “What happened to you, man? You never used to be like this.”
Kyle scoffs in disagreement. “I was just doing what had to be done.” He glances my way almost dismissively, before focusing back on Finn. “ You’re the one who has changed. Let some girl whisper in your ear while you’re balls deep inside her, and all of a sudden your priorities are her priorities.”
Finn is on his feet in the next second, chair legs scraping across the floor loud enough to draw the attention of the rest of the table. Hell, the entire cafeteria.
“I would never target another player because they’re better than me.” He gives Kyle a hard look. “I never thought you would either.”
At Finn’s obvious disappointment, Kyle loses his cool. “She’s a girl ,” he snaps, loud enough that those listening hear him. “She shouldn’t even be on the team.”
“Now isn’t the time or the place, Reed,” Ethan states, voice loud and authoritative. He doesn’t even glance up from his tray, completely dismissing Kyle. “Go sit down.”
Teeth grinding, Kyle glares first at the top of Ethan’s head and then at me, before storming off with his tray in hand. At the far end of the table, beside Fletcher and Monroe, he drops it with a loud clatter before glaring at his food until conversations start up once again.
Sighing, Finn ducks his head, elbows resting on the table.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, so quietly that I nearly miss it. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He never used to be like that. Competitive, sure, what hockey player isn’t, but not to the point of going after a player off the ice.”
“Some men just can’t handle the fact that a woman is better than they are.”
Finn looks up at me, brows furrowed low over his eyes. “I don’t think?—”
“You said it yourself,” I cut him off. “He’s never gone after any other player, then suddenly a woman shows up who is better than him.
Sure, the stakes are higher—it’s college and you’re in your senior year—but even if I hadn’t shown up, Kyle still isn’t good enough to go pro.
Best he could hope for is a farm team, but you and I both know he doesn’t have the skill, the drive, or the passion to make it big. ”
Finn purses his lips, but he doesn’t disagree. If anything, I can tell he’s really thinking over what I’ve said, perhaps seeing Kyle in a new light—seeing the real Kyle instead of the preteen version he knew once upon a time.
The overhead lights cast long shadows across the ice, the silence of the empty stands pressing in around us. The arena is ours for the taking.
This has become my favorite part of the week. Something that I used to partake in alone. Then there was Griffin—at first a silent witness to my self-directed practices, then as an ally on the ice. Now, it’s all of us.
Five bodies moving across the ice, five players working in sync. No one keeping score. No one holding back. Just us, training, refining, and bettering each other.
Every night after dinner this week, we have come out here.
When the guys first suggested it, I’d been nervous.
This was my thing. My quiet time away from the world.
Sure, Griffin had wormed his way into it, but Griffin is quiet.
He keeps to himself. I knew the others wouldn’t be like that, and I was right.
Ethan immediately went into captain mode, ordering everyone to warm up before putting us through drills.
Even though my previous solitude has become loud chaos, I find myself stopping frequently to watch Jax and Griffin walk through plays, Finn showing off, and Ethan frowning while he completes a move.
Often with a small smile on my face. Solitary practices weren’t my norm growing up.
It was always me and my dad—maybe another kid or two skating about.
They were loud, filled with laughter amongst the teachings.
Somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten that while playing hockey, I was supposed to be having fun .
These nights, these practices with just the five of us…they are the most fun I’ve had in years.
“Come on, Menace. Try and get past me,” Jax calls as he skates past. Grin on my face, I race after him. He flips so he’s skating backward, smirking cockily as I close the distance between us.
“What do I get when I win?” I ask, deliberately holding back, moving the puck side to side as we glide across the ice.
He smirks. “You can touch me anywhere you want.”
Despite the cold, my body heats. He’s been doing that all week—taunting me, teasing, saying dirty things that he knows get a reaction out of me. However, he has yet to actually follow through. Instead, he gets me all worked up to leave me hanging. Sadistic asshole.
I scoff. “Like you’d protest to my hands on your body.”
He winks, and I love this playful side to him. He keeps it carefully tucked away, only really bringing it out when we’re alone or with the guys. I never see it on campus, when we are surrounded by students or the rest of the team. It makes it that much more special. Makes me feel special.
“All right,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “And what do you get if you win? Which you won’t, but hypothetically speaking.”
“Hypothetically speaking, I get to touch you anywhere I want.”
A shiver rolls through me, before I smirk coyly. “Too bad you won’t be winning.”
I put on a burst of speed. Dropping my shoulder, I explode forward, faking right before cutting left, slipping past him before he can react.
“Fuck,” I hear him curse before spinning to chase me down.
My triumphant laugh turns into a squeal as I push faster.
Despite his size, Jax is lightning on the ice.
I’m fast, but somehow he manages to catch up.
I feel the whisper of his fingers against the back of my jersey before his arms band around me from behind, lifting me off the ice before slowly setting me back down.
He keeps his arms wrapped around my waist, his skates framing mine as we glide across the ice together.
Reaching the boards, he turns me to face him, backing me against the glass. “I won,” I say, breathless, and not just from the burst of exertion. Tapping my gloves against his, where his hands are bracketing my hips, I whisper, “That means I get to touch you .”
Unfazed by his loss, he smirks, letting go of me only so he can plant his hands on the glass above my head.
It only serves to bring him closer, his stance widening as his body comes within inches of mine.
His cedarwood and mint scent invades my space, and for the first time ever in hockey, I find myself wishing I’d lost. That’s how insane these boys make me.
Ducking his head, his breath fans across my cheek as he brings his lips to my ear. “Go ahead, then. Claim your prize.”
I shiver. The notion of Jax as a prize, a present to unwrap…
it has me clenching my thighs. I blink up at him through my lashes.
I must look anything other than sexy in my oversized hockey gear and wearing a helmet, sweat glistening on my skin, but he looks at me like I’m all he sees.
Like I’m the only thing worth seeing. It momentarily stalls the air in my lungs and makes my brain glitch.
Lifting my hand, my glove hovers inches above his chest. His gaze shifts to watch, his chest rising and falling heavily, like he’s as anxious to feel my touch as I am to touch him.
We’ve been playing video games, talking, spending time together all week, but neither of us has initiated anything physical.
None of them have, except Griffin, who avails of every opportunity to drape himself over me, kiss me publicly, and tease me when we’re at home.
I’m pretty sure he’s getting a kick out of pissing the guys off.
Holding my hand there, I flick my gaze to his, waiting until he looks at me. “Hmm, I don’t recall there being a time limit on this deal.” Ducking under his arm, I spin to face him, grinning impishly. “I think I’ll claim my prize another time.”
He growls, desire darkening his features as he pushes off the boards as though intent on chasing me again. Part of me wants him to. Wants him to chase me, to pin me down, to get me so wound up that I can’t consider anything other than touching him.
“Let’s get back to it,” Ethan interjects, pushing Jax’s stick into his hands before pointing him into position across the ice. “Drink,” he says more softly, handing me a bottle of water that I greedily accept.
He nods in satisfaction when I’m done, taking back the empty bottle, the plastic crinkling in his grip.
“We going again?” Griffin calls from the net, flipping his mask up.
“Yeah,” Ethan returns. “Run the play again. This time Finn and Dylan on offense.” Bringing his gaze back to mine, he checks, “If that’s good with you?”
I nod, adjusting my gloves, and he skates off. Before I can move, though, Finn is suddenly there, tugging my helmet strap tighter. “Loose,” he murmurs, voice rough, like the thought of me getting hit unsettles him. “Can’t have that.”
My pulse jumps, throat bobbing. “I can do it.”
His smirk is slow, lazy. “I know.”
After he’s finished adjusting the straps, his fingers linger, his gaze locked on mine. “Ready to show them how it’s done?”
I flash him a grin. “Let’s bring it.”
Excitement flashes across his green eyes, adrenaline, the thrill of the play flushing his skin. We work in tandem, barely even needing to communicate. Our bodies do all the talking as we pass the puck back and forth, closing the distance between us and the net.
I can feel Ethan’s gaze on us, critical, assessing. Feel the tension in Jax’s body as he waits for us to get closer, the surety in Griffin’s stance as he makes himself as large as possible, covering as much of the net as he physically can.
When we’re in the zone, Finn goes off with the puck, drawing Jax toward him.
Jax crowds him, the two of them battling for possession.
Without so much as sparing me a glance, Finn knocks the puck in my direction.
It sails straight toward my blade, and I catch it with ease as I line it up for the shot.
“Dammit,” I grumble, when Griffin deflects it with a sharp, practiced motion.
“Good attempt,” he says, skating out from the crease. “But I saw it coming a mile away.”
“So did I,” Ethan adds, skating up beside me.
His hand brushes my hip like it’s nothing.
Casual. Something he does all the time. In fairness, it’s something he does frequently now, and I have to admit, I like it quite a bit—this casual display of affection.
“You hesitated a second before the shot,” he points out. “Don’t give the goalie that advantage.”
I nod, absorbing the advice.
“Let’s go again,” I say, sharp, focused.
“Fine, but Ethan’s on defense,” Jax states, before grumbling, “two against one is just cruel.”
We break up, running through the play again and again, switching positions so either Ethan, Finn, or I are playing defense, while the other two run offense.
With every pass, every shift, something inside me settles. It’s the rhythm of it, the ease. The way we push each other and challenge one another, but never in a way that feels cruel or punishing. It’s effortless, like it’s always been, like it was always meant to be.
Griffin taunts Ethan for getting deked. Jax shoves Finn when he cuts too close. It’s easy. Fun.
Because this? This is what I’ve been missing. This is what I love .
The ice, the game, the camaraderie and—despite everything—perhaps even these boys. My boys.