Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DYLAN
The locker room’s a riot of noise. Murphy’s got someone’s towel wrapped around his head like a championship belt, shouting about his two assists like he carried the whole damn team.
Ollie’s filming a half-naked dance-off between Jacko and Danny, both of them soaked in sweat and ego.
And there’s that buzz in the air, the one that only follows a win.
My first game back. Four-one on the scoreboard. I scored one, assisted another. Not bad for a guy who’s been off the ice for weeks, stitched together by physio tape and whatever spell Mia Clarke keeps muttering under her breath.
And yeah, I feel good. Shoulder held up. Ankle, too. No sharp twinges. No limp. But there’s this weird dissension between what my body’s saying and what’s happening in my head.
“Diesel’s back, baby!” Murphy yells, slapping my back with a force that should be illegal. “And he brought the show with him. Did you see that celly?”
“You mean the one where he winked at the front row instead of actually celebrating with the boys?” Danny shouts from across the room. “Absolute tosser.”
“Jealousy’s a disease, mate,” I shoot back with a grin.
Everyone laughs. It’s easy, natural. The kind of locker room energy that feeds you. Makes you feel like you’re ten feet tall.
But I’m not. I’m sitting here, unwrapping my wrist tape, peeling back the layers until I’m down to bare skin, and wondering why the high never lasts long enough to quiet the voice in my head.
The one that sounds a hell of a lot like my dad.
He was never at any of my games when I was younger. Not one. But I always hoped he’d show up, just once. Apparently, he was a decent player, or so I’m told. Quick hands. Good instincts. But not good enough.
That’s the thing that gets me. Not good enough. Those words embedded themselves in him like rust in an old blade. And instead of sharpening mine, he turned it on me.
I learned not to expect much from Dad, except silence when I succeeded and something bitter when I didn’t.
“Don’t get cocky,” he’d say when I brought home trophies.
“You’ll peak too early.” When I scored the hat trick that got me scouted by the juniors, he just nodded and said, “Hope you don’t choke under the pressure. ”
So yeah, I play cocky. I flirt with the fans. I wink, I smirk, I show off. But all of it’s a front. Because somewhere underneath all that swagger is a kid who still wants his dad to clap. Just once.
I flex my fingers, still sticky from the resin I use to grip my stick.
The tape’s a mess on the floor now. Like my thoughts, and the guys are still celebrating around me.
Music’s blasting from Murphy’s phone. Some pop remix with a bassline that rattles the lockers, and in the middle of it all, I sit quietly.
I glance at my phone. Nothing from him. Not that I expected it.
But there’s a message from someone else.
Mia: Good game, Winters. Shoulder held up?
I stare at it for longer than I should. Because it’s more than just physio protocol. I saw her on the sidelines tonight, trying not to watch me too closely and failing. The way her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile but wouldn’t let herself. Because she’s real. And I can’t be.
I start typing back. Then stop before starting again.
Dylan: Held up fine. Probably your expert taping.
It’s not enough, but I don’t know how to say the rest. That I played like a maniac because I knew she was watching. That every cocky move, every stupid grin I threw at the fans, was a cover for the way I wanted to look at her instead.
Murphy drops down onto the bench next to me, knocking his helmet into my shoulder. “You all right, mate?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just soaking it in.”
“Bullshit,” he says, too casually. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I scored a goal, but it doesn’t mean jack because something’s crawling around in my brain’ look. You always get it when you’re thinking about the old man.”
I don’t answer. Just unclip my skates and start tugging at the laces. He lets the silence stretch, then adds, “He’s a prick for what he did, you know. Not saying anything. Never showing up.”
“It’s not that simple,” I mutter.
“Isn’t it?”
I don’t know how to explain it. That weird cocktail of resentment and longing. The part of me that wants to scream at him, and the part that wants him to finally see the real me.
“He used to be good,” I say. “When he talked about it, he was always a game away from being scouted. A call away from being drafted. But it never came.”
Murphy shrugs. “That’s on him. Not you.”
“Yeah, well. I think every time I got closer to what he never had, it made it worse.”
Murphy leans back, folds his arms behind his head like he’s sunbathing in the middle of the chaos. “Still doesn’t give him a right to dim your light because he couldn’t spark his own.” I give him a look. “What? I read. Got a quote-of-the-day app now. I’m evolving.”
I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth twitches. Fucker always knows how to break tension like it’s a game. He claps a hand on my shoulder and pushes himself up. “Shower, beer, and then the pub. You in?”
“Yeah,” I say, slower than usual. But I am. I need to shake this off. The ghosts. The ache. The self-doubt. And maybe I’ll message Mia again.
Maybe I’ll tell her the shoulder’s fine but the rest of me is still catching up.
That her checking in meant more than she knows.
That when I was on the ice tonight, it wasn’t the crowd or the goals or even the win that pulled me through.
It was the memory of her voice telling me I wasn’t broken. That I’d heal.
Maybe I’ll tell her that she was right.
The pub is already buzzing when we get there; same place, same booths, same post-game rituals. Jerseys swapped for jeans and hoodies, pints in hand, laughter bouncing off the exposed brick walls like we won the championship, not just a regular Friday night game.
I’ve got a beer in front of me, untouched.
Murphy is in his element, holding court at the end of the booth, retelling my goal in increasingly exaggerated detail every time someone new arrives.
Jacko’s at the bar ordering shots for no reason other than “it’s tradition,” and Ollie’s trying to sweet-talk the bartender into free nachos.
And then the door opens.
Mia walks in like she’s not sure if she should be here, keys clutched in one hand, her hair slightly wet from the drizzle outside. Black jeans, grey coat, her dark eyes scanning the room and land right on me.
My chest tightens.
She doesn’t smile. But there’s something there, a flicker. She lifts a hand in a hesitant wave, and Murphy immediately spots her. “Well, well, well. Look who finally crawled out of the clinic!”
He jumps up and makes a dramatic show of dragging her over. “You here to make sure Diesel doesn’t injure himself doing shots?”
“Someone has to keep you all in one piece,” she mutters, but there’s warmth in her voice. Even a hint of a smirk. She slips into the booth opposite me. Doesn’t ask if it’s okay, but then she doesn’t need to. The space shifts around her like it always does. It’s calmer. Sharper.
I finally lift my beer and take a long pull, just to have something to do with my hands.
“You looked solid out there,” she says after a beat, low enough that it’s just for me.
“‘Solid? That all I get?” I arch a brow. “Not even a ‘great game, Dylan’?”
She shrugs, deadpan. “I don’t want it going to your head. You’ve already got fans throwing bras onto the glass.”
“That was one time.”
She tilts her head, unimpressed. “It was two. I counted.”
I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “Were you watching me?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze flicks to her glass of water, then back up. “I always watch. You know that.”
Something in my stomach twists. “I meant off the puck,” I say, quieter. “When I wasn’t doing anything impressive.”
Her eyes narrow, like she’s trying to read between the lines.
“You looked like you were trying to prove something tonight,” she says finally. “Not to the crowd. Not to the team.”
I lean in, my elbows resting on the table. “Who, then?”
She just holds my gaze. It’s steady and clear. “You tell me.”
The noise around us blurs; laughter, glasses clinking, Danny singing something off-key. But this moment, this look, it sharpens everything. It grounds me.
“I don’t know how to stop trying,” I admit. “I don’t know how to just be enough.”
Mia’s expression softens. “You were enough tonight.”
I swallow. “Thanks to you,” I say. “For the tape. For the rehab. For showing up.”
She looks down at her hands. “It’s my job.”
“But you don’t do it like it’s just that. You make it feel like it’s so much more.”
Her breath catches and I hear it, even with all the noise. And for one fragile second, she doesn’t put the wall up. She lets it crack open.
“No,” she murmurs. “I don’t.”
There’s something in that silence. A hum. A thread pulled too tight. I want to reach across the table. I want to touch her hand, lace my fingers through hers. But I don’t. Not here. Not yet.
Murphy barrels over with a tray of shots, completely oblivious to the moment he just bulldozed through. “Celebration time! Mia, you’re doing one whether you like it or not.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m driving.”
“Water shot, then,” he says, already sliding her a glass with a wink. “Symbolic peer pressure.”
She takes it without arguing and we clink glasses, laugh, and drink. But as the night rolls on and the table erupts into chaos again, her leg brushes mine under the table, and it stays there.
She doesn’t move it. And neither do I.