Chapter Nine
Dylan
Fifteen seconds left on the clock.
My lungs burn with each ragged breath. Sweat stings my eyes as I scan the gleaming white expanse of ice for an opening.
These are the moments I live for. The moments when it’s just me, the puck, and the net.
When all my training and early mornings and sacrifices come down to one single play.
The home crowd noise—eighteen thousand voices melding into one primal roar—fades to a distant hum as I catch Blaze’s eye across the rink. He gives me a barely perceptible nod.
Game on.
The Columbus defenseman’s red jersey is stark against the arena’s cold blue lighting. He shifts his weight, signaling his next move. I’ve been studying him all night—he always leans right before committing left. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
I push forward, blades cutting into the ice with a satisfying crunch as I pick up the pace.
Ten seconds.
Cam has the puck now, evading a check, his focus absolute as he searches for an opening. I maneuver into position, finding the gap in coverage that most players would miss.
“Here!” I shout, tapping my stick against the ice twice.
Cam’s head snaps up, and in one fluid motion, he sends the puck my way. It’s slightly off, but I stretch, the edge of my blade catching it just before it slides out of reach. The defenseman realizes his mistake too late, lunging toward me as I pivot away.
Five seconds.
The goal is right there. The keeper’s eyes lock with mine. His body tenses as he tries to anticipate my shot. I fake high and he commits, lifting his glove. At the last possible second, I flick my wrists, sending the puck low to his right.
The red light flashes. The horn blares. The crowd erupts.
Game. Over.
Winner, winner, chicken dinner.
I’m immediately crushed under a pile of my teammates. Hands slap my helmet, voices shout in my ears. I can’t stop smiling. The rush of adrenaline from a game-winning goal never gets old.
“Amazing, Dylan. Absolutely amazing!” Kade’s voice rises above the others as he pulls me into a headlock.
The crowd is on their feet, a sea of blue-and-white Glaciers jerseys. I raise my stick in the air, and they roar even louder.
This feeling right here is better than any drug.
“Nice work, Williamston,” Coach Wilson calls out as we file off the ice. “Great read on that defenseman.”
I nod, too winded for words.
The locker room buzzes with post-game energy. The guys peel off their sweat-soaked gear as they excitedly relive key plays.
“That’s three in a row,” Paul, the rookie, calls out to me. “We’re on fire!”
“Don’t jinx it,” I warn, but I can’t help but smile. We’re on a good run. The playoffs are months away, but we’re playing like a team that knows where it’s headed.
I strip off my jersey, wincing as I lift my arms. I took a pretty hard hit in the second period that’ll definitely leave a mark. I rotate my shoulder, testing it. Luckily it’s not serious, just another battle scar to add to my collection.
By the time I’ve showered and changed, most of the guys are dressed and heading out. A few reporters have made their way in, cornering Cam for quotes. I slip past them, not in the mood for post-game analysis.
Tonight feels like a celebration.
We’ve had three straight wins. It’s the perfect excuse to hit a bar with the guys and let the rush of victory carry us for a few more hours before reality sets back in.
I spot Kade by his locker, putting his gear in his bag. “Hey, Santos. I’m hitting The Penalty Box tonight to celebrate. You in?”
He looks up with an apologetic smile. “Can’t tonight, man. I promised Colton I’d help him with his science project. He’s building a volcano, and it’s due tomorrow.”
“Can’t Ella handle it?”
“She’s grading papers.” Kade shrugs as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to turn down a night out with your best friend to help your fiancée’s eleven-year-old son with his homework. “Besides, I promised Colton. You know how it is.”
Except I don’t know how it is. That’s the thing.
“No worries,” I say, already backing away. “Catch you next time.”
I spot Cam next, now free of reporters. He’s checking his phone, a small smile on his face.
“Cam! Penalty Box tonight? First round’s on me.”
He glances up, an apologetic expression already forming. “Sorry, Dylan. I’ve got dinner plans with Nila tonight.”
“Right, right.” I nod. “Another time.”
Three for three comes when I approach Blaze, who’s already got his coat on and keys in hand. Before I even open my mouth, he’s shaking his head.
“It’s date night with Addy,” he says, not even bothering to look sorry about it. “We’ve had it planned for weeks. She’s got some new recipe she wants to try.”
“I get it,” I say, though I’m not sure I do. “Go be disgustingly happy and domestic.”
Blaze laughs and claps me on the shoulder. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, man. One day you’ll figure it out.”
I force a laugh, but it rings hollow in my chest.
One by one, my best friends are abandoning ship for ... what? Family dinner? Homework? Recipe testing?
When did we all get so old?
The worst part is the way they always check their phones after games. They get these cheesy smiles when they see text messages from their significant others. Like they can’t wait to get home. Like there’s somewhere better to be than celebrating with their teammates after a win.
I’ve never understood that pull. I’ve never wanted to be tied down like that. I like my freedom, my space. I like my ability to do what I want, when I want, with whoever I want.
Don’t I?
“Yo, Williamston!” A voice breaks through my thoughts. Paul and a couple of the other rookies—Nate and Brad—are huddled by the door, clearly waiting for someone. For me, I realize. “We’re heading to The Penalty Box. You coming?”
My first instinct is to decline. The rookies are good kids, but they’re ... well, rookies. Still starstruck by the NHL, still in awe of veterans like me. It can be exhausting being “Dylan Williamston, the Hockey Star” instead of just Dylan.
But the alternative is heading home to my empty house.
Booooring.
At least at the bar, I won’t be alone with my thoughts.
“Sure.” I shrug. “Why not?”
The Penalty Box is packed, as it always is after a home game.
The place smells like beer and fried food.
The walls are covered in hockey memorabilia from high school to the pro level.
Three large screens are replaying highlights from tonight’s game.
I catch a replay of my goal on the center screen, my arms raised in celebration as the puck hits the back of the net.
“There he is!” someone shouts as we push through the crowd. “The man of the hour!”
Several people reach out to clap my shoulder and offer high fives. I smile and nod, playing my part. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the fans—I do, more than they know. But sometimes the attention feels ... well, not hollow, exactly. But a little ... disconnected from who I really am.
We squeeze into a corner booth, and the rookies immediately launch into a play-by-play breakdown of the game. I nurse my beer, only half listening as they argue about whether Cam’s pass to me was skill or luck.
“It was beautiful, that’s what it was,” Nate insists, his face flushed with excitement and probably the two shots he downed as soon as we were seated. “Did you see the way he threaded it between those two defensemen? Surgical, man.”
I smile and nod, letting their enthusiasm wash over me without really engaging. My mind keeps drifting, replaying the moment afterward—where we were celebrating, and I looked up into the stands, scanning the crowd as I always do, searching for...
For what? For who?
An image of Cheyenne flashes in my mind.
Her smile, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs.
It’s been over a week since we went to the Christmas tree farm, since our dinner afterward.
I’ve texted her a couple times—nothing serious, just checking in.
She seems better. Moving on from Garrett the Jerk, as I’ve taken to calling him in my head.
“Dylan.” Paul waves a hand in front of my face, jolting me back to the present. “Are you still with us?”
“Sorry.” I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. “I was just replaying that last goal.”
“Well, you might want to snap out of it,” Brad says with a nod toward the bar. “Because you’ve got an admirer who’s definitely checking you out.”
I follow his gaze to see a tall blonde at the bar, watching our table with unmistakable interest. She’s model-gorgeous—long legs and perfect makeup. She’s got the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly how good you look. Which is exactly my typical type.
“Dude.” Nate elbows me. “That’s Vanessa Anders. The model from the swimsuit issue.”
I vaguely recognize her now that he mentions it. She’s been in a few magazines, maybe a commercial or two. As I watch her make her way to our table, she catches my eye and smiles.
“Mind if I join you boys?” Vanessa asks, though it’s not really a question, as she’s already sliding into the booth next to me, forcing the rookies to scramble and make room.
“Not at all,” I say automatically, shifting slightly to give her room to sit. The rookies are practically vibrating with excitement, their eyes ping-ponging between me and Vanessa as if watching a tennis match.
“I saw your game,” she says, flashing her professionally whitened teeth in a smile. Her hand lands on my forearm. “That last goal was incredible. You have amazing ... reflexes.”
The innuendo isn’t subtle, and neither is the way her eyes trail down to my chest and back up. This is familiar territory. The dance we’re supposed to do now is well-choreographed: I compliment her, she laughs; I buy her a drink, she moves closer; we exchange numbers, maybe go out a time or two.
But as she leans in, her perfume overwhelms my senses.
Suddenly, all I can think about is how different it is from the subtle scent Cheyenne wears.
How Vanessa’s laugh seems practiced compared to Cheyenne’s genuine one.
How her eyes, while objectively beautiful, don’t change color in the light the way Cheyenne’s do, shifting from green to gold depending on her mood.
Wait, why am I thinking about Cheyenne right now?
“Dylan?” Vanessa prompts, her smile faltering slightly at my lack of response.
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “Long game. I’m still a little ... somewhere else.”
“I could help bring you back to the present,” she offers, her hand now resting on my thigh.
The rookies are watching intently. I should be flattered. I should be interested. This woman is a literal swimsuit model. And she’s clearly into me.
But instead, I find myself imagining what Chey would say if she were here.
Probably something sarcastic about Vanessa’s obvious lines.
She’d joke about how she can practically see the rookies’ tongues wagging.
She’d definitely make me laugh a real laugh, not the forced chuckle I’m doing now at whatever Vanessa just said.
I didn’t even hear what Vanessa just said.
This is getting weird.
“Actually,” I say, draining the last of my beer before setting the glass down, “I should probably get going. Early practice tomorrow.”
There’s a collective intake of breath from the rookies.
Vanessa’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rise in surprise. “It’s only ten o’clock,” she points out.
“Professional athlete.” I shrug, already sliding out of the booth, forcing her to stand. “Early to bed, early to rise, all that.”
“But...” She looks genuinely confused. “Could I at least get your number? Maybe we could meet up another time?”
“I’m pretty slammed right now.” I pull out my wallet and toss some bills on the table to cover everybody’s drinks. “But it was nice meeting you, Vanessa.”
I can feel the rookies’ dumbfounded stares boring into me as I make my exit.
I don’t blame them. I’m pretty confused myself.
The night air is sharp and cold as I push through the bar’s doors, filling my lungs with it in an attempt to clear my head.
What just happened? Since when do I turn down gorgeous women who are practically throwing themselves at me?
Since Cheyenne.
No. That’s ridiculous. Cheyenne is Genna’s best friend. She’s been part of our family since we were teenagers. She just got out of a relationship a week and a half ago. She’s vulnerable. She’s off-limits for a thousand reasons.
And yet, as I slide behind the wheel of my truck, I can’t deny that something has shifted. I sit in the parking lot, engine running but not yet in drive, trying to make sense of these foreign feelings.
My phone pings with a notification, breaking into my thoughts. It’s Instagram—Vanessa has already posted a selfie she must’ve snapped with me in the background, tagging me with the caption: “Great meeting @DylanWilliamston tonight! #HockeyHottie.”
Normally, I’d like it immediately. It’s free publicity, good for my brand, all that. But tonight, I swipe the notification away without even opening the app.
Instead, I pull up my text thread with Genna.
Me: What are you and Chey up to Saturday afternoon? Got tickets to the game if you two want them. Good seats.
Before I can overthink it further, I hit send.
The three dots appear almost immediately, Genna typing a response. My heart rate picks up in a way it definitely shouldn’t for a simple text from my sister.
I’m being ridiculous.
Genna: OMG yes!!! Chey was just saying she misses going to the games! We’d love to!
A small, satisfied smile tugs at my lips. I tap out a quick reply, promising to leave the tickets at will call, then toss my phone onto the passenger seat.
As I finally put the car in drive and pull out of the parking lot, I try to analyze my reaction.
Why am I more excited about Cheyenne coming to watch me play than I was about a literal swimsuit model hitting on me?
And what the heck am I supposed to do about it?