Chapter Eight
Cheyenne
A few days ago, I was crying over Garrett behind an oak tree. Now, I’m standing in my living room watching an NHLer in elf tights put a star on top of my Christmas tree.
“It’s perfect,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
We all step back to take in the full effect.
The white lights twinkle through the branches, reflecting off the collection of ornaments Genna and I have accumulated over the years.
Some are store-bought, others are handmade.
There’s the hockey stick from Mrs. Williamston, a Star Wars-themed one I got during a White Elephant gift exchange in college (I haven’t even seen Star Wars, but I love a good Yoda quote), and the miniature lab that looks just like Jhett, who’s currently snoozing on his bed in the corner, exhausted from all the excitement.
Genna sighs. “It’s beautiful.”
“It really is,” I agree, feeling a lightness in my chest that’s been absent since Thanksgiving.
Maybe even before that.
“We should celebrate,” Dylan announces, with a clap. The bells on his wrists jingle with the movement. “All this hard work deserves a reward. Dinner? My treat.”
I check the time on my phone. It’s only 7:30—not too late for dinner. But before I can decide, Genna lets out a dramatic yawn.
“Oh, I think I’m gonna have to pass,” she says, stretching her arms over her head. “I’m completely exhausted. Christmas tree shopping takes a lot out of a person.”
I narrow my eyes at her. She was fine two minutes ago.
“You two should definitely go, though,” she continues, already backing toward the hallway. “Don’t let my old lady bedtime ruin your fun.”
“You’re literally four months younger than me,” I point out.
She shrugs, unfazed. “Age is just a number. My soul is ancient and requires rest.” She’s almost to her bedroom door now. “Have fun!”
And just like that, she’s gone, leaving me alone with Dylan.
I hesitate, suddenly uncertain. Eating dinner with Dylan isn’t exactly new territory given how long we’ve known each other, but Genna normally joins us.
And there’s just something about tonight that feels .
.. different. Maybe it’s the lingering vulnerability from my breakup, or the way Dylan’s been so determined to cheer me up.
“What do you say, Chey? You in?”
I could say no. I could claim exhaustion like Genna. I could stay home and scroll through social media and wonder what Garrett is up to. Or I could go have dinner with someone who spent his evening dressed as an elf just to make me smile.
“Let me change first,” I decide. “I’m covered in tree.”
His face instantly brightens. “No rush. I should probably get out of these tights anyway, so I don’t cause a scene at the restaurant.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve switched to jeans and a nicer sweater, though I still find pine needles in my hair as I apply a quick coat of mascara. Dylan’s changed too, back into normal clothes—jeans and a dark blue henley that makes his eyes look even more intensely green than usual.
“Ready?” he asks as I grab my coat and purse.
I nod, feeling oddly nervous as we head out. The ride to the restaurant is comfortable, filled with easy conversation about the upcoming hockey season. Christmas music plays lightly on the radio in the background.
The restaurant he chooses is a local place I’ve passed a hundred times but never been inside. It’s a cozy Italian spot with warm lighting and holiday decorations strung along the windows. A small Christmas tree stands in the corner, its lights reflecting in the dark windows.
“I love this place,” Dylan says as we’re led to a booth near the back. “Best lasagna in the city, and they don’t make a big deal about...” He gestures vaguely to himself.
I understand immediately. He means they don’t make a big deal about him being a professional athlete. It’s easy to forget sometimes that Dylan lives a life where his face is recognized, where strangers feel entitled to his time and attention.
We settle into the booth, its high sides creating a sense of privacy. I unwrap my scarf, finally warm enough to relax, and we fall back into the easy rhythm we found while decorating the tree.
“So,” Dylan says after we’ve ordered drinks, “on a scale of one to ten, how much better was my tree choice than that scrawny thing you wanted?”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe a six. And only because it fit through the door.”
“A six!” He clutches his chest. “After all my expert guidance? That hurts, Chey.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Fine. Seven point five. Extra points because it smells amazing.”
“I’ll take it.” He grins and leans back against the booth. “Though I still think we should’ve gone with the twelve-footer.”
“And put it where, exactly? On the roof?”
“Details.” He waves dismissively. “Think big or go home, that’s my motto.”
“Is that what you tell the rookies?” I ask, genuinely curious about his role on the team.
“Actually, no,” he replies thoughtfully. “With the rookies, it’s more about slowing down and getting the fundamentals right. The game moves so fast at this level—if you’re always thinking big, you miss the small moments that make the difference.”
I’m struck by the insight, this glimpse of Dylan the professional rather than Dylan the class clown. “That’s ... actually good advice.”
He laughs. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
Our drinks arrive, and the waitress does a slight double-take when she sees Dylan. “Oh! Mr. Williamston. Welcome back.” Her smile widens. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Thanks, Ellie,” Dylan responds warmly. “How’s your son doing? Still playing defense?”
“Yes! And he’s wearing your jersey number now.”
Dylan grins. “Tell him to keep working on his backward skating. That’s where great defensemen are made.”
The interaction lasts only moments, but I find myself mesmerized by this version of Dylan. He knows the waitress’s name. He remembers details about her son. It’s a side of him I’ve glimpsed before but never really paid attention to—the genuine person beneath the playboy persona.
After we order, the conversation flows naturally from hockey to holiday plans to memories of Christmases past. I find myself telling him about traditions with my grandmother, stories I haven’t shared in years.
“She used to make these Polish cookies,” I explain, relaxing further into the booth. “They took forever to bake, but they were amazing. After she died, I tried to recreate them, but they’re never quite right.”
“Maybe you’re missing the secret ingredient,” Dylan suggests. “Grandmas always have some mysterious component they never write down.”
“Love and butter.” I laugh. “That was her answer whenever I asked.”
“The secret to every good recipe, I think.” He nods.
Our food arrives, steaming and aromatic, and the conversation continues between bites.
Dylan tells hockey road trip stories that have me laughing so hard I have to put my fork down.
I counter with stories from market research projects gone wrong.
There’s an ease between us that I’ve always taken for granted, but tonight it feels like something I should cherish.
As he eats his lasagna, I find myself studying him, really looking at the person across from me. The way his eyes light up when he laughs. The small scar above his left eyebrow from a bike accident. How he thanks Ellie by name every time she refills our water glasses.
I’ve known Dylan Williamston for over a decade, but somehow, I feel like I’m seeing him clearly for the first time. Not as Genna’s annoying older brother, or as the hockey star with women hanging off his arms in social media posts, but as ... Dylan. Just Dylan.
The realization is both simple and startling.
“What?” he asks, catching me watching him. “Do I have sauce on my face?”
I shake my head quickly. “No, I just...” I pause, not sure how to explain what I’m thinking.
“I just wanted to thank you again. For today. For the ridiculous elf costume and helping us set up the tree and ... just being there. For us. For me. After everything with Garrett, I honestly didn’t expect to be laughing this much so soon. ”
Dylan’s expression softens. “That’s what friends are for, Chey.”
“Still. It means a lot.”
Our eyes meet across the table, and something shifts yet again in the air between us. The restaurant seems to fade away. Suddenly, all I can hear is my own heartbeat. Dylan’s gaze holds mine in a way that makes my breath catch.
The moment stretches, as if time stands still. And I find myself wondering what would happen if I reached across the table and took his hand.
“Excuse me,” a voice breaks in. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but are you Dylan Williamston?”
A young man stands beside our table, phone already in hand. He looks about college age, his expression apologetic but excited.
Just like that, I watch Dylan transform. His posture straightens, and his smile widens into that camera-ready grin I’ve seen in a hundred social media posts. “That’s me,” he confirms, voice shifting subtly to a more confident, public tone.
“I’m a huge fan,” the young man gushes. “My friends are never going to believe this. Could I possibly get a photo?”
“Of course,” Dylan agrees easily, already sliding out of the booth. “No problem at all.”
I watch as he stands next to the fan, arm slung casually around his shoulders, while the young man takes a selfie. Dylan asks him about his favorite team moments, poses for a second photo, and even signs a napkin. He’s charming, gracious, and completely in his element.
The interaction lasts only a few minutes before the fan thanks him profusely and returns to his table across the restaurant. When Dylan slides back into our booth, he seems slightly embarrassed.
“Sorry about that,” he says, picking up his fork again.
“Don’t be,” I assure him. “That’s your life, right? Does it happen a lot?”
He shrugs. “Depends where I am. Places I go regularly, like here, it’s not too bad. People are pretty respectful. The bars after games can get intense, though.”
I nod, trying to imagine what that must be like—to be recognized, to have strangers feel entitled to your time and attention. It explains some things about him, I realize. The careful public image. The way he can turn on the charm like flipping a switch.
“Is it weird?” I ask. “Having people know who you are when you don’t know them?”
“Sometimes. But mostly, I’m just grateful, you know? I get to play the game I love for a living. If taking a few photos is the downside, that’s a pretty good deal.”
His perspective surprises me—it’s so mature and grounded for someone with his reputation. There are layers to Dylan Williamston that I’ve never bothered to explore, I realize. Depths I’ve assumed weren’t there.
As we finish our meal and Dylan insists on paying despite my protests, I find myself wondering what other assumptions I’ve made about him that might be wrong. And why, after all these years of knowing him, I’m only now starting to really see him.
Maybe it’s because I’m finally looking.