Chapter 27 Dylan
Dylan
Kennedy helps me understand the text and teaches me how to put it into my own words. I close my laptop, feeling brain-dead. I stayed up all night last night, turned a few things in after she left, and now it’s the next morning.
“Thanks for coming so early,” I say, leaning back. I pull out my wallet and start counting out cash. “Here’s that.”
“Thank you,” she says, taking it. She folds it and places it in her bag. “So, why are you failing anyway?”
I laugh, staring at the table. I run my hands through my hair.
She comments, “I hate Knox’s mullet. Isn’t the bet over?”
I nod. “Yeah, bet’s over.”
She rolls her eyes. “Good, because it needs to be gone. You should cut yours too.”
I chuckle. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“So, why are you failing?”
I shrug. “I was spending my free time working out.”
She blinks. “That’s not enough to tank all your classes.”
I pause, tapping my fingers on each other. I think about Cecily and how my mind wrapped around her, forgetting everything else. “Yeah, you could say that. I just went a little overboard.”
“Trying to impress someone?” she teases, standing. She doesn’t wait for me to answer; instead, she says, “How many more assignments do you have?”
I look through my folder. After getting frustrated with the email, I wrote it down on a piece of paper. I check one thing off. “Looks like three more.”
She nods. “We’ll get your grades up, okay.”
“Thanks, Kennedy.”
“I’m busy tomorrow, so I can meet you later today.”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
I reach for my phone to see if I have any notifications. Last night, Cecily didn’t text me back. I shake the feeling, putting my phone away.
I leave the library and head straight to practice.
The rink smells the same—cold metal, sweat, rubber—but it doesn’t hit like it usually does. Typically, the second my skates touch the ice, everything else shuts off. Grades. Girls. Noise. It all fades into muscle memory.
Today, it doesn’t.
I warm up with the guys, skating laps, stretching out my legs. My body feels fine. Strong. Loose.
Rocky sends a pass my way. I’m a half-second late. The puck clips my stick instead of landing clean, skidding away toward the boards.
“Jesus, Etta,” Rocky mutters, already chasing it down.
I shake it off and keep skating.
We run drills. Quick passes. Tight turns. I miss another one. Then another. Nothing dramatic—just sloppy enough to be noticeable. The kind of mistakes that don’t happen when my head’s right.
Rocky slams into the boards to stop, spraying ice. He looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether to chirp or check in.
“You alive over there?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”
He snorts. “Doesn’t look like it.”
We reset. I tell myself to focus. Just play. That’s it. Simple.
But my legs move before my brain catches up, and when the puck comes flying toward me again, I hesitate. Rocky’s already on me, ripping it away and skating past.
He blows the whistle himself, stopping short in front of me. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I shrug. “Messing around.”
“Bullshit.” He leans on his stick, breathing hard. “You don’t mess around.”
I don’t answer.
We start up again, and I push harder, throwing my body into it. I purposely skate in front of Rocky, just to feel something. The impact rattles my teeth, and I welcome it. Rocky slams into me, knocking me off balance.
Coach barks something, but I’m staring at Rocky.
“Alright,” Rocky says, grabbing my jersey before I can skate away. “Enough of this shit.”
I look at him. “What?”
“We need you for the games this weekend,” he says. His voice drops, serious now. “Heard you’re getting benched for academics, but guess what? I’m not going to fucking vouch for you if you’re playing this shitty.”
That lands harder than the hit.
I open my mouth, then close it. “I’m fine.”
He shakes his head. “You’re fucking up, Etta.” He points at his head. “I can see it in your eyes. And when you’re on it, it fucks with everyone else.”
Coach’s whistle shrills from the entrance, cutting through the noise. “Dylan. Rocky. Over here.”
Rocky gives me one last look before skating off. “Figure it out,” he mutters.
I skate toward Coach, my chest tight. He doesn’t look pissed. That somehow makes it worse.
“I heard from the advisor,” he says.
I nod. “I’m working on it.”
“Working on it isn’t the same as finishing it. You’re so close, Etta.” He folds his arms. “You know what’s at stake.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He watches me for a second. “We’ll see how the week goes.”
That’s it. No lecture. No punishment. Just uncertainty.
I nod again and skate back out, my jaw clenched.
Practice wraps up without much else being said, but I can feel the eyes on me, the space I usually own feeling… thinner.
In the locker room, the guys are loud, joking, pulling off gear. I sit on the bench and untie my skates slower than usual.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
For a second, my chest tightens, stupidly hopeful.
It’s not her.
I check anyway. The screen lights up, and there it is. The last thing I said to her.
No.
Just sitting there. No reply under it. No follow-up. Nothing. She didn’t push. Didn’t ask why. Didn’t argue. I lock my phone and shove it back in my bag.
Rocky slaps my shoulder as he passes. “Don’t fuck this up, man.”
Scott stares at me like he knows what’s going on. Westley minds his own business.
“I won’t,” I say automatically.
But as the locker room empties and the noise fades, I’m not so sure.
I grab my bag and head out into the cold, the rink lights buzzing behind me. My head feels heavy, like I’ve been running all day without actually going anywhere.
I did what I was supposed to do. I cut out distractions. Focused. Got help. Put my head down.
And it still wasn’t enough.
I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag and keep walking.
This is why I don’t let things get complicated.
It’s Friday, and I sling my duffel over my shoulder to step up onto the bus. I nod at a couple of the guys already sprawled across the seats. Headphones in. Hoods up. Everyone half-asleep, half-locked in.
I’m about to drop into a seat when Coach’s voice cuts through the noise.
“Etta. Hang back.”
A few guys glance over. Rocky lifts his brows at me from two rows up. I shrug like it’s nothing and step back off the bus.
Coach waits until the door hisses shut behind the last guy before speaking. He looks tired, as if he didn’t sleep much either.
“I talked to your advisor again this morning,” he says.
My chest tightens. I nod. “Okay.”
“You pulled your grades up enough that you’re not in immediate danger anymore.”
Relief hits fast and sharp. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“But,” he continues, and I already know there’s a but, “it’s not enough yet.”
My jaw locks.
“You’re sitting on Friday.”
The words land heavily.
I blink. “Friday?”
“Yes.”
“Saturday?”
“I pulled some strings,” he cuts in. “You’re cleared to play tomorrow. That’s not me being nice. That’s me believing you can handle it.”
I nod, even though my stomach twists.
“You sit tonight,” he says. “You watch. You think. And tomorrow? You prove to me—and to yourself—that you’re worth the risk.”
The bus door opens again. Cold air rushes past us.
Coach steps aside. “Get on.”
I climb back onto the bus, my legs stiff, my head loud. I pass Rocky without looking at him and take a seat by the window, staring out at nothing.
Benched.
Friday.
I press my forehead against the glass and close my eyes.
The flight is quiet. The hotel is forgettable. Everything blends in that way away trips always do—same hallways, same carpets, same stale air.
By the time we’re in the locker room Friday night, the reality has settled in.
I’m dressed, fully geared up. The tape is tight around my wrists. Skates are sharpened. Ready.
And sitting.
I take my spot on the bench as the guys line up for warmups. The ice gleams under the lights, clean and untouched—the kind of surface you want to tear up.
Rocky skates past and taps my helmet with his stick. “Tomorrow,” he mutters.
I nod.
The puck drops, and the game starts without me.
From the bench, everything looks different. Slower. Louder. I notice every missed pass, every late change, every hesitation. My leg bounces nonstop, my hands gripping my stick like I might snap it in half.
A guy on their team cuts through our defense. I lean forward instinctively.
“Watch the slot,” I mutter under my breath.
They don’t.
The puck hits the back of the net.
The bench groans. Coach swears. I sit back, heart pounding, jaw clenched.
I could’ve stopped that.
I know I could’ve.
The game stays close, but it’s messy. Sloppier than it should be. The kind of game that makes your skin itch because you know you could change it if you were out there.
Every shift feels personal.
Every goal against feels like it’s on me.
Between periods, I sit in silence while the guys talk strategy. Coach glances at me once, then looks away.
Good.
Let him.
By the third period, my blood is buzzing. I’m fired up in a way that has nowhere to go. My body’s ready. My mind’s screaming.
We lose by one.
When the horn sounds, I stay seated for a beat longer than everyone else, staring out at the ice like it might look back at me.
Tomorrow.
Saturday.
That’s my chance.
Back in the hotel room later, I sit on the edge of the bed, still wearing my team-issued sweats, skates long since kicked off. My phone rests in my hand, screen dark.
I don’t turn it on.
I already know what’s there.
Or what isn’t.
Cecily didn’t text me back. Not after the campaign. Not after my no. Not after anything.
I told myself that was the point. Less noise. Less distraction.
But sitting here, replaying the game in my head, watching the space where I should’ve been, it doesn’t feel like control.
It feels like I cut something out and expected everything else to fall into place.
Tomorrow, I’ll play.
Tomorrow, I’ll prove it.
I set my phone face down on the nightstand and lie back, staring at the ceiling.
This is my chance to make it right.