Chapter Six – Dylan
He treats that old thing like it’s alive, like it has a breath of its own.
He even talks to it from time to time. I’ve heard him muttering to himself when he doesn’t think I’m listening, sweet nothings to a piece of junk.
It’s sort of romantic, but it’s a little worrisome too.
I know he’s a mechanic, but he must get fed up tinkering with cars and trucks all the time.
But for real, I like watching him work. There’s this relaxed quality about it — the way he becomes so intense and quiet. It’s weirdly soothing, which is crazy for the guy who throws punches like he does at a moment’s notice.
Tonight, I figured I’d just chill with him in the garage.
Some quality bro time, nothing too serious.
Plus, I can feel my ADHD medication starting to wear off, and if I went to the house, I’d be sitting on the couch, being a total grouch, stuffing food into my face like a raccoon at a snack machine.
This was the better option. Chill atmosphere. Less insanity.
However, my ass is aching from sitting on this oil-stained concrete floor for like an hour now, scrolling through my phone, watching this same video over and over — the girl with frizzy brown hair who wiped herself out in the lobby of the rink.
It’s hilarious, pure comedy gold every single time.
“Dude. It’s the way she falls in front of the coach,” I snigger, turning the phone screen to him. “Look! How did Coach not lose it?”
Fuck, the coach is an emotionless rock.
The wobbly footage continues to run on the rink’s security camera app, which I have access to — the perks of being the manager. This is the fourth time I’ve watched her knees hit the floor in a way that would make even a professional skater wince.
I understand I shouldn’t laugh at someone else’s pain — really, I’m not a monster — but she gets up completely okay. No cuts or anything dramatic involving a stretcher, just a bruised ego.
Torin peers at the phone screen and lets out a deep grunt. I get the feeling he’s already considering throwing my phone into the closest oil barrel. Grumpy fucker.
How does neither he nor the coach not burst out in laughter?
I get up and stand beside Torin. He has his arms folded across his chest, pretending not to take any interest. The video plays again; however, this time, I catch him watching from the corner of his eye.
“Wait. Rewind a sec.” He points to the screen.
Giving him a smug look, I rewind it for a second or so, and there it is — those wild, jerky movements as she’s attempting to look through the door’s window.
Torin’s lips twitch. Is he holding back a smirk? He runs his stained hand through his hair. “For someone so small, she can jump surprisingly high,” he says, then clears his throat, trying to act nonchalant. “I mean, she definitely committed. What is she, a journalist?”
I pause the video and lean against the truck. The cold metal feels nice on my warm skin. “Coach says she’s a writer.”
“Interesting,” Torin mumbles, giving me a sideways look and raising an eyebrow.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him take an interest in anything other than his truck.
I mean, I get it. She’s pretty.
Admittedly, she’s not someone I would usually go for. I’m normally into blonde skaters who strut around thinking they’re the best thing since sliced bread.
But the author?
She’s got something.
Not flashy. Not ostentatious. Just something.
Curly hair everywhere, like it’s alive with its own personality, and those doe-shaped eyes — I couldn’t help but notice them in the video. They absolutely hold your attention.
Yeah. Not my usual.
But maybe that’s not so bad after all.
I hold back a grin and reply. “Yup.”
“So, is she writing about hockey players or ice skaters?” he asks as he picks up an old rag from the bench behind me.
I shrug. “Fuck knows. Coach hasn’t said much, just that her name is Fawn Higgins and she wants to talk to the players.”
Scoffing, Torin rolls his eyes while wiping his hands. “She’s got some serious fucking guts. You guys are morons. She’d probably learn more just by googling ‘dumb hockey players and how to handle them’.”
Dumb hockey player. I know I left school with low grades, but I wouldn’t say I’m dumb. In fact, it takes a lot to be a team captain and manage an ice rink.
“Thanks for that.” The words come out flat, but a smirk plays on my lips. “Great to know what you think of me.”
“What, you being the cockiest moron of them all?” He throws the rag in my direction, and some of the oil splatters my white T-shirt.
Fuck! I only washed it yesterday.
I throw the rag back at him, and he catches it with ease. “Don’t get jealous because the girls like the cocky vibe . . .”
I’m not wrong — girls love my vibe.
I’m a six-foot hot mess: charm, swagger, and back tattoos everyone notices. The bulging muscles, the hockey captain persona, and naturally, my perfect smile, the one that’s gotten me out of more sticky situations than I’d care to admit.
What can I say? I’m a catch.
I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I’m basically the human version of a golden retriever. All energy and the occasional dumb decision with full confidence.
So yeah, I’ll take it as a compliment, even if it means I’m more bark, less mystery.
Torin clears his throat, his pupils sharpening into dark points. “I could get any girl. The difference is, I avoid them, Dyl.”
Completely true. Torin can get any girl he wants.
Like me, he’s a total catch. He’s thirty, handsome in a really laid-back sort of way that’s almost annoying. Fucking tall — like 6'4" — and looks like a Greek god who’s into old rock music. He has this brooding thing that totally drives women crazy.
When we go on bar crawls, it’s like watching moths congregate around a porch light. They just swarm him — hair flips and flirty smiles. He doesn’t even flinch, just nursing a whisky like he’s so above the attention.
The crazy part?
In the past, girls have admitted getting close to me just so they can get to him.
Rude, but I get it.
He gives off that cranky, mysterious lumberjack vibe girls love to try and figure out. Meanwhile, I’m the cocky golden retriever best buddy who’ll order you a tequila shot and maybe even roll off my barstool.
“Well, we’ve been living together for years, and you’ve never bought a single woman home.
You can’t avoid them forever, you know.” I walk around the truck, pulling my T-shirt off and draping it over my shoulder.
Even though the air kisses my skin, making me feel lighter, something feels heavy behind me.
I glimpse over at Torin, and immediately, I can tell my teasing didn’t hit right. A muscle pulses at the corner of his jaw. He stands like a statue, his eyes anchored to the truck.
Shit.
For a second, I forgot he’s a guy struggling with so much more than anyone realizes.
He’s gone adrift, his features turn blank, like old memories have him in a chokehold.
I recognize that face.
He’s gone off somewhere else, somewhere darker.
Guilt roots itself in my chest. I’ve got to try and sort this out. Fast.
I amble over to the small fridge in the corner.
It groans slightly as I open it, a cold draft hitting me.
I grab a beer for myself, and pick up a bottle that’s hidden beside the toolset on the counter — his favorite whiskey.
You know, the expensive kind he pretends he didn’t purchase for some sentimental reason.
Carefully, I pour the whiskey into his usual glass — without ice, naturally. He always has it neat.
When I gaze back at him, he’s still gripping the truck as if trying to catch his breath from some memory that refuses to release him.
With the glass in hand, I hold it out to him. “Hey. I think you could use this.” My voice is steady; I don’t want to startle him.
His eyes shoot open. “Thanks.” His voice is barely audible, but he doesn’t give a second thought to grabbing the glass.
He takes that first sip like he’s desperate for it. Then, the tension sort of washes off his face, his shoulders relaxing some, like the burden has eased.
Yeah, he definitely needed that.
I raise the beer to my lips and hesitate for a second. “I kind of figured . . . maybe I shouldn’t have said . . . About you needing a girl after—”
“It’s cool,” he interrupts.
Another guilty tremor rolls through my body, as I lean against the wall.
“No, it isn’t cool. You returned from the Army to discover your girlfriend ditched you—moved on with some other guy.
Dude, you can’t just brush that shit off.
You’ll meet someone when you’re ready for it and not when I’m here rambling like a fool. So, yeah. I’m sorry.”
The joys of having ADHD — I tend to ramble or stutter when I’m nervous.
The apology sort of hangs in the air. He scans my eyes briefly then back down again at the amber liquid in his glass.
“Honestly, Dyl,” he replies softly, clinking his glass against my beer bottle, “you’re good.”
The garage becomes eerily quiet, that thick silence. It lingers, as if it’s holding its breath to see what follows next. The only sound nearby is the gentle crackle of a vintage radio on the workbench, playing some random ’80s love song — all about heartbreak and open highways.
Slowly, I sip on my beer as I allow the moment to sink in.
“Excited for the game tomorrow?” My voice cracks, breaking the silence.
What a relief. In all honesty, I was completely stumped for how to shift the topic.
Torin’s mouth pulls into a teeth-heavy grin. “Against the Redwood Rangers? Fuck yeah. Easy win.”
And just like that, we’re back in safer territory — ice, pucks, and anything else. “You think? Well I hear they have a new goalie—”
Without hesitation, he interrupts me, “No one’s as good as our Cal.”
I feel my eyebrow raise, the bottle hovering just beneath my lips. “Callum’s good — when he’s not too busy flirting with anything that has two legs, or on vacation.”
Torin snorts.
Cal could save a puck with his eyes closed, no question, but put a line of lovely girls along the glass, and he’s absolutely stumped as to where the puck is headed.
I know I can’t talk; I can be a ladies’ man too.
However, the Redwood Rangers have a reputation.
Cheap shots, and the charming habit of nearly annihilating goalies like it’s part of their game plan. They’ve done it before.
“Listen,” Torin says. His expression hardens. “If anyone on their team puts their hand on Cal—” The words die halfway up his throat, leaving his jaw rigid.
I can’t help but give a low whistle, enjoying the way he’s getting worked up.
No one messes with our goalie now that he’s back and ready.
Cal may joke around and make wisecracks during warm-ups, but he is really one of our own. If one of those Rangers goons so much as blink at him, they will be leaving the rink on wheels.
I chuckle. “You’re such a grumpy drama queen, Torin.”
He shrugs, taking the last sip of his whiskey. “Nah, I’m just loyal, that’s all.”
Completely ruining the relaxed atmosphere in the garage, my phone vibrates. I reach into my back pocket, take it out, and look at the screen.
Fuck. Shit. Fuck. I groan as my mouth goes dry, thumb hovering above the screen. “Shit, it’s Harper.”
Ah, Harper Turner.
A local figure skater with a killer pirouette but the personality of a dry lamb chop. Her dad sponsors the rink, so she kind of thinks she’s Ivywood royalty — or at least acts like it. Her nose is always tilted up just enough to look down on the rest of us.
I hate to say it, but she’s a bitch.
Still, I made the noble but somewhat tipsy choice to sleep with her one night when we were on a bar crawl. I had way too much tequila and have been dealing with the repercussions ever since.
I glance down at her name on my screen again, staring at it for a beat — long enough to consider making a dumb decision. Then, I let out a sharp exhale through my nose and shove the phone back into my pocket.
Nope. That’s a tomorrow problem.
“Is she still pestering you?” Torin asks hesitantly.
I sigh heavily and rub my temple with my free hand. “She waits for me after practice. I’ve told her three times already — it was a one-night thing, and I’m not interested.”
“Well, maybe you should have avoided hooking up with girls who discuss their skating scores when they’re getting down to business.”
My middle fingers snaps up. “Man, I wish I had never told you that.”
What the fuck was I thinking? I’ve heard of some odd kinks, but fucking hell.
“Bet it was . . . thrilling,” Torin teases.
An exhale drains out of me as my shoulders slump. “I’m never drinking tequila again.”
“Pretty sure I hear that every weekend. So, we’re definitely doing a bar crawl tomorrow after the game?”
Snorting, I stroll toward the garage door, beer dangling from my hand.
“If we win,” I reply, completely laid-back, as if I haven’t spent the past week psyched for this game.
“Whoa! The team captain is certainly not very confident, is he?”
My mouth pulls to one side. “I’d feel much better if one of our best players wasn’t always taking penalties like he’s auditioning for the UFC or something.”
Torin raises his hands, mock innocent. “Sorry. I’m just passionate.”
“Yeah . . . Well, the officials are calling it aggravated assault.” I offer one final smile, beer in my hand. “Night, bud.”
And with that, I walk toward the house.
Fuck, I’m pumped for the game tomorrow. There’s something about playing the Redwood Rangers that just gets me buzzed.
I think it’s those arrogant smirks they wear.
Or maybe those cheap shots they take. Or perhaps it’s just the way they skate around like they invented hockey whenever they step out on the ice.
Plus, I know Torin will take out a Ranger or two while we’re collecting points. It’s going to be a good game.