Chapter Twenty-Nine – Dylan
Coach has us doing passing drills, and the rink is complete and utter chaos: steel slicing through the ice, the sticks clacking, the chill of the air against my face.
I’m weaving through the cones, passing the puck between my legs, pushing as hard as I can to work off some of the pent-up restlessness.
The light streaking across the ice creates long white lines. Every time I pass Torin, we exchange the dumbest, goofiest little smiles. He never smiles during practice. Usually, he’s a walking storm cloud on ice.
But today? Yeah, today, we’re both on cloud nine.
I slap the puck across to my teammate, and I swear, the coach’s eyes are on me.
“What the fuck’s got you smiling, Anderson?” a toothless winger asks, pulling up alongside Torin.
Torin’s grin evaporates instantly. “Your mom.”
Oh fuck. The mom jokes are back. Last time, someone got a chipped tooth and another person’s jaw was broken. Not saying it’s anyone’s fault, but Torin definitely did that.
The winger scoffs. “Fuck you, Anderson. Can we hurry up and finish practice? Anderson’s mom is waiting for me at home with a warm, wet towel.”
I choke on my own spit. Did that guy actually—
A muscle ticks in Torin’s jaw. There it is — the death clench.
“Stop fucking whining,” Torin fires back, unruffled. “I hear enough of that from your mom when she blows up my phone.”
We’re all losing it, but we stop once we hear the coach’s whistle echo through the rink. “WOLVES!” he yells with a clipboard in hand. “No more fucking mom jokes! HOW OLD ARE YOU . . . TEN?”
We disperse like guilty children, but seriously?
Neither Torin nor I are actually paying attention.
Not at all. The puck goes wide and I don’t chase it the way I should.
Fawn’s laugh is too loud in my head. Her morning hair too vivid.
The way she said she wanted us. Torin isn’t much help either, as he proceeds to skate into a cone as if it’s personally insulted him.
Coach notices. “CRAWLEY! ANDERSON! What the hell is going on with you two today?”
Torin and I share another grin; it’s secret, stupidly happy, and the whole team can tell our heads are anywhere but on the ice.
Coach blows the whistle so hard, the sound bounces off the boards.
“Alright, Wolves, get over here.”
Groaning, we all skate toward the gate, where Coach stands like an angry tree stump. We huddle into a semi-circle of sweaty equipment and warm breath. Coach’s expression is serious, which is never a good sign.
I shoot Torin a look. He raises his brows like, What now?
“Right, two things,” Coach says, crossing his arms. “The Rangers want a rematch.”
The team bursts out into immediate annoyance, like a flock of angry geese.
“Alright, shut up!” the coach yells, cutting the air with his hand until the noise dies down. “Now, for the next announcement . . .” He freezes, and that’s precisely when they come strutting in.
Harper and her father, Mr. Turner, followed by an entourage of figure skaters, like some sparkly appendages.
Fuck me. What’s this about . . .
Harper’s rocking a self-assured little smile, like she sauntered in here for the sole purpose of gracing us with her presence. She keeps glancing at me, her head tilted, trying to get my attention. No, thank you. I’d rather fuck the Zamboni.
Mr. Turner looks like a statue standing beside the coach, hands clasped behind his back.
Oh, there’s the power suit again. Navy, expensive, no doubt tailored to perfection.
This guy always looks like he’s up for the position of CEO of the toothpaste empire.
And his hair? Jesus. The amount of gel could seal the entire rink.
“Mr. Turner will handle it from here,” Coach says, stepping aside.
Harper practically hangs off her dad’s arm like some kind of ice princess who has never been scolded. I’ve never been much of a fan of the guy. There’s something about him that screams I yell at waiters for fun.
Mr. Turner clears his throat. “Hello, Wolves.” His voice is polished and corporate. “So, the annual charity ice event is coming up very soon.”
Ugh.
Torin rolls his eyes; they look like they’re going to pop right out the back of his skull.
I’m suppressing the urge to do the same, but as the rink’s manager and team captain, I have to stay professional.
The figure skaters are excited, especially Harper, it’s like she’s just dying to shout that she’s going to produce some sparkly performance and that the rest of us are there to support her.
“So, Wolves, my amazing daughter here,” Mr. Turner continues, placing a hand on Harper’s shoulder as if the whole ice rink belongs to her, “is going to read off the names.”
She assigns teammates to a figure skater. Each of the men grunts, moans, and curses as they hear their name called. The coach’s eyes drag across the team like a warning — impossible to miss. Harper holds a clipboard, looking utterly smug, mouth pursed, her eyes aglow from having the spotlight.
And then, she calls my name.
“Crawley. You’ll be with yours truly.” She actually curtsies.
I stare at her. “Wait, why are you pairing us up? I’m lost.”
Before Harper can answer, Coach jumps in, as if I’ve personally offended the Turners.
“Crawley, didn’t you fuc—” He stops himself from swearing. “Didn’t you listen?” He turns to Mr. Turner and personally addresses him. “Apologies. I think the team is a little tired today.”
Harper cuts in, smiling in a way that means nothing good. “For the charity event, we’re going to be doing a dance number. And I know how much you like to dance, Dylan.”
A fucking dance routine with her? No. No. Fuck no! I’d rather put wood splinters in my ball sack.
She twirls a strand of her hair then bites her bottom lip, probably thinking she looks sexy. “Oh! Anderson, you’re with Molly.”
Torin mumbles, “The fuck I am . . . We’ve never had to dance before. This is bullshit.”
Nudging him in the ribs, I hiss through a pseudo-smile, “Shut up. I’ll get you out of this.”
Harper’s grin widens as Torin reacts. “Oh, Anderson, you’ll have to lift Molly. Dirty Dancing style,” she says, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.
Torin doesn’t utter a word. He slams his stick noisily on the ice and exits, growling a curse word that ricochets off the boards.
Coach gives me the warning glare. The handle him look.
I flash him a tight fake smile.
“Sorry . . .” I say quickly. “Mr. Turner, I’ll deal with him.”
Mr. Turner nods as if he’s doing us some kind of huge favor by even being there.
I push off the ice and follow Torin out, already thinking about how the fuck I am going to get us out of doing the event.
I could always undercook something and give us the shits.
Actually, never mind; I have already done that . . . twice.
We’re barely through the door. Torin’s hand hits the metal and the sound bounces off every wall. The sound is deafening. He storms toward the row of benches, rips off his gloves, and tears at the laces on his skates. His forehead veins are straining to the point of eruption.
Oh, he’s really pissed.
“You better get me out of that event, Dyl,” he growls, pushing his hair back so forcefully, it looks painful. “There’s no fucking way I’m dancing.”
“I will. Just chill the fuck out.”
The bench shudders as he launches to his feet.
“Fuck no! One, I am not dancing. How old do they think I am? Two, I’m thinking of Fawn. And three—” He raises his voice. “Harper Turner is a bitch!”
“DUDE!” I hiss, throwing my hands up. “Shut the fuck up. Remember, her father basically pays my wages, and he could fold this team he wanted to.”
“Look at my face, Dylan . . .” He closes the gap. “Are you looking at my face? Do I look like I give a crap? No.”
“You’re sounding like a selfish ass right now.”
“How? Because besides you, I’d never let another man touch Fawn. Therefore, I’d never touch another woman.” His nostrils flare. “Plus, I’ve seen the way Harper and her little ice bunnies look at Fawn. Fuck them. I won’t bow down to her.” He sends his skate skidding across the floor with a grunt.
Before I can get a word out, the locker room door bursts open, banging against the wall. The coach bursts in, his presence resembling a dark cloud clad in his puffer jacket. “What are you two playing at?” he roars. “Making a fool of me in front of a good friend and a sponsor!”
Torin grits his teeth so hard, I think they might crack. I can see the blood rush to his head.
The room shrinks around Coach as he paces, before he turns and starts again.
I place my hands on my hips. “Sorry, Coach. I don’t think we can attend the charity event. Torin and I will be away that night.” The lie happens too quickly, before I can think.
Coach gets right up in my face; I can smell his peppermint chewing gum and a cigar he probably had earlier.
“Well, funny,” he snaps, “because Harper hasn’t even announced the date yet. Do you know how bad it’ll make me look if the team captain doesn’t show up?”
Torin opens his mouth to speak. “Coach—”
“No, Anderson. I don’t wanna hear it,” Coach cuts him off without so much as looking his way.
“I think it’s the least you can do for me, considering everything I’ve done for you two.
Dylan, who has been there for you since the age of what .
. . fifteen? And then when your mother was first diagnosed with dementia . . . huh? Me.”
My jaw tightens and I look away. I knew that was coming.
“And you, Torin. Who helped you after your father’s death? Who pulled you out of depression? Who stopped you from killing yourself? Me.”
Fuck, that last part is something Torin and I try to forget. He was in such a dark place.
Torin sinks back onto the bench, his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor.
Coach smooths his jacket, looking between us like he’s disappointed in two troublesome kids.
“Turner pays for this rink. So you will put on a smile” — he jabs a finger at us — “and you will fucking do it.”