Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Dylan
“Not your fault.”
Three pathetic words. That’s all I managed to text Cheyenne when she reached out about the article. Three words that say absolutely nothing about the hurricane of thoughts spinning through my head since those photos hit the internet.
I scroll through the article for what must be the hundredth time, wincing as the headline glares back at me: “Hockey Star Spotted Ring Shopping with Mystery Brunette.” Mystery brunette.
Like Cheyenne’s identity could be reduced to her hair color and her proximity to me.
Like she hasn’t been part of my life for fifteen years.
I toss my phone onto the couch beside me, but I can’t escape the images burned into my retinas. Photos of Chey and me standing close together at Meridian Jewelers, my arm around her waist, her face turned up toward mine with a smile I’d give anything to see right now.
The worst part isn’t the invasion of privacy or the speculation.
It’s that the pictures make us look ... right together.
Happy.
Like we actually could be a couple shopping for engagement rings instead of two friends messing around.
Meanwhile, Cheyenne’s gone radio silent. It’s been two days since the article dropped, and aside from the initial “Sorry that happened” text, nothing.
Not that I gave her much to respond to.
I pick up my phone again, scrolling further down the article. The writer has done a thorough job of documenting my “playboy lifestyle,” complete with a collage of Instagram photos featuring me with various women at events.
Seeing them all collected like this makes me cringe.
I have dated a lot of women. I’ve cultivated this image of the carefree bachelor, the hockey player who works hard and plays harder. It’s been my brand, my comfort zone, my defense mechanism.
So, what is happening to me?
I click on the largest photo of Chey and me at the jewelry store, zooming in on our expressions. The photographer caught a moment I didn’t even realize was happening—a split second where I was looking at Cheyenne like she was the center of the universe.
And maybe, at that moment, she was.
When did this happen? When did Chey stop being just my sister’s best friend and start being the person I can’t stop thinking about?
Maybe it was at the Christmas tree farm, when she saw my elf outfit and laughed until she couldn’t breathe.
Or at the Italian restaurant afterward, when she talked about her grandmother with such love in her voice.
Or maybe it was at Cam and Nila’s party, when I found myself gravitating toward her all night, annoyed every time someone else made her laugh.
Or maybe it’s been happening slowly, over the past fifteen years, and I’ve been too blind or too stubborn to notice.
My alarm goes off, jarring me out of this dangerous line of thinking. Game time’s in three hours. I need to get my head on straight.
But as I pack my gear and head for my truck, I can’t shake the image of Chey and me together. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve screwed up something important before it even had a chance to begin.
Cam sends a perfect pass my way, but I’m looking in the wrong direction, and it sails past my stick.
Coach Wilson barks something from the bench, but his words don’t register.
I shake my head, trying to clear it, trying to focus on the game and not on hazel eyes and a smile that makes my chest hurt.
“Williamston!” Coach shouts as I skate by. “Wake up!”
I nod, pushing myself harder, skating faster. But even as my lungs burn and sweat trickles down my back, my mind keeps wandering.
And I miss another pass.
Then another.
And I collide with a defenseman from the other team.
The first period ends with us down by one.
Coach tears into us in the locker room, but his words wash over me like white noise.
I’m nodding, agreeing, promising to do better, but all I can think about is Chey and that stupid article and how I’ve probably ruined any chance I had with her before I even realized I wanted one.
“What’s going on with you?” Cam asks as we head back to the ice for the second period. “You’re playing like you’ve never seen a hockey stick before.”
“Just an off night,” I reply, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “I’ll pull it together.”
But I don’t.
The second period is, if anything, worse than the first. I’m struggling to keep up with plays I could normally execute in my sleep.
Coach benches me for half the period, a humiliation I haven’t experienced since my rookie year.
During a timeout, Kade approaches. “What’s going on? Are you sick or something?”
I shake my head, too embarrassed to admit the truth.
“Is this about that article? The one with you and Cheyenne?”
The fact that he knows—that everyone probably knows—makes my face heat up. “It’s not—it’s nothing,” I stammer. “That was just a stupid tabloid thing.”
Kade raises an eyebrow. “Look, whatever’s going on, you need to deal with it. The team needs you to be focused.”
He’s right, of course.
Luckily, I’m able to pull myself together enough in the third period. I make a few decent plays, even assist on a goal. Blaze, Cam, and Paul carry the team to a narrow victory, but I know I was more of a liability than an asset tonight.
In the locker room after the game, the mood is subdued despite the win. I sit in front of my locker longer than necessary, staring at my skates, avoiding eye contact with teammates who are surely wondering what the heck happened to me out there.
I check my phone, a reflex I can’t seem to break. No messages from Cheyenne. Not that I expected any, but the disappointment still stings.
“Post-game meet and greet in ten minutes,” one of the PR assistants calls into the locker room. “Just the usual routine, guys.”
I groan internally. The last thing I want to do right now is paste on a smile and pretend everything’s fine for a bunch of fans. But it’s part of the job, so I shower quickly and change into the team-approved outfit: jeans and a blue button-down that matches our team colors.
The meet-and-greet area is already crowded when we arrive. Fans line up for autographs, photos, and brief conversations. I go through the motions, signing jerseys and posters, smiling for selfies, making the same small talk I always do.
And then I see them—the blonde and the brunette approaching our table. I recognize them both from previous games. The blonde, especially. Kaylie or Kylie, or something like that. We made out once after a game last season. She’s been a regular at these events ever since.
“Dylan,” she purrs, leaning across the table so her low-cut top reveals exactly what she wants me to see. “Great game tonight.”
It wasn’t, and we both know it, but that’s not why she’s here.
“Thanks,” I reply, my standard response to compliments I don’t deserve.
“Some of us are going to The Velvet Lounge after this,” she continues, handing me her phone for a selfie. “You should join us. It’s been way too long since we caught up.”
Her hand lingers on my arm as she poses for the photo, her body pressed against mine in a way that leaves no doubt about what “catching up” would entail.
And I feel ... nothing. No interest. No spark. Not even the basic appreciation for her obvious beauty that would have been automatic for me just a few weeks ago.
All I can think about is Chey. Chey’s laugh. Chey’s smile. The way she looked in that jewelry store when we were pretending, just for a moment, to be something we’re not.
“Not tonight,” I say, handing back her phone. “Thanks, though.”
The confusion on her face would be comical if I weren’t so aware of my teammates’ eyes on me. This isn’t how this usually goes. Dylan Williamston doesn’t turn down beautiful women.
Except, apparently, now he does.
The blonde walks away, whispering something to her brunette friend who glances back at me with obvious confusion. I return to signing autographs, ignoring the speculative looks from my teammates.
When the event finally ends and we’re gathering our things to leave, Blaze approaches. “Since when do you say no to that?” he asks, nodding toward the door where the blonde and her friend have just exited.
I shrug. “Not in the mood, I guess.”
“Not in the mood?” Blaze repeats, incredulous. “You? The guy who once left a charity gala with twins?”
“That was different,” I mutter, suddenly embarrassed by my own reputation.
“Different how?”
I don’t answer immediately, focusing on packing up my bag, avoiding his eyes. But Blaze just waits, patient in a way he rarely is.
“This is about Cheyenne, isn’t it?”
I sigh. “I can’t stop thinking about her. I’ve been thinking about her for a while actually, but something about seeing that article, seeing that photo of us together ...” I trail off, not sure how to explain the clarity that hit me when I saw us through someone else’s eyes.
Blaze studies me for a moment, then nods slowly. “You’ve got it bad, man.”
“Tell me about it.” I zip up my bag with more force than necessary. “It doesn’t matter anyway. She’s never going to take me seriously.”
“Because of your sparkling personality?” Blaze jokes.
“Because of my stupid Hockey Playboy reputation. The fact that everyone expects me to be hooking up with models, not...” I trail off.
“Not falling for your little sister’s best friend,” Blaze finishes for me.
“Yeah.” The word comes out more like a sigh. “She just got out of a relationship with a guy who treated her terribly. She’s not looking to jump into something with someone who has an even worse reputation.”
“Have you talked to her about it?”
I shake my head. “She’s barely speaking to me since that article came out. I think she’s embarrassed to be associated with me.”
“Or maybe she’s protecting herself,” Blaze suggests. “If she has feelings for you too—”
“She doesn’t,” I interrupt.
“But if she did,” he persists, “wouldn’t it make sense for her to keep her distance? Especially if she thinks you’re just playing another one of your games?”
His words hit me hard.
Is that what Chey thinks? That the jewelry store was just another game to me? That she’s just another conquest waiting to happen?
The thought makes me sick.
I’ve spent years cultivating my playboy image, wearing it like armor, keeping everyone at a safe distance since Jessica shattered my teenage heart. But Chey deserves better than my carefully constructed facade. She deserves the real me—whoever that is. I’m not even sure I know anymore.
“I need to show her it’s real,” I say, the words coming out before I’ve fully processed them. “That I’m serious about her. That this isn’t just—”
“Another hookup?” Blaze supplies.
“Exactly.” I sling my bag over my shoulder, a determination I haven’t felt all night suddenly coursing through me. “I need to prove to her that I can be different. That I want to be different. For her.”
Blaze claps me on the shoulder. “Good luck with that, man. For what it’s worth, I think you two would be good together. She doesn’t put up with your crap.”
He’s right about that. Chey has never been impressed by my hockey status or my Instagram followers or any of the superficial stuff that seems to work on other women. She sees right through me, always has.
Maybe that’s part of why I’m falling for her.
I say goodbye to Blaze and head out to the parking lot alone.
The night air is cold, cutting through my jacket as I walk to my truck.
I need a plan. Some way to show Chey that my feelings for her are real, that I’m not just playing games.
That the guy in that jewelry store photo—the one looking at her like she hung the moon—that’s the real me.
I just have no idea how to convince her of that.
Not when I’ve spent years convincing the world—and myself—of exactly the opposite.
But I’ve got to try.