Chapter 27 Dylan #2
And for the first time since all of this started, I’m not entirely sure what “right” even means anymore.
Saturday comes fast.
I wake up before my alarm, heart already racing, the faint hum of traffic outside the hotel window reminding me I’m not home. My body feels wired, like it knows today matters even if my brain hasn’t caught up yet.
I shower longer than usual. Eat even though I’m not hungry. Lace my shoes slower. Everything feels deliberate, like if I rush any part of this, it’ll fall apart.
On the bus to the rink, the guys are quieter than last night. Focused. Westley sits across from me, legs stretched out, head back against the seat.
“You good?” he asks without opening his eyes.
“Yeah,” I say. This time, I mean it.
At the rink, Coach doesn’t pull me aside. That’s the first sign. I dress with the team, pull my jersey over my head, and tape my stick. My hands don’t shake, which feels like a small victory in itself.
Warmups hit different today.
The ice feels faster. Sharper. Every stride feels like it matters. I take a few shots, bury one top shelf, then another. Nothing flashy—just clean.
Scott skates past me. “There he is.”
I nod, but I don’t smile.
When the puck drops, I’m on the ice within the first shift.
I tell myself one thing and one thing only, simple.
First pass. Clean. Second pass. Clean. I keep my feet moving, my head up, my body loose. No overthinking. No forcing anything.
Midway through the first period, I steal the puck at the blue line and drive it deep, taking a hit along the boards that rattles my shoulders. I stay on my skates. The bench erupts behind me.
That feels good.
The game tightens after that. Both teams are pushing; neither is giving much. I block a shot that stings like hell and bite back a curse, skating it off. I win a faceoff, I shouldn’t. I missed a shot I should’ve buried.
Coach watches me closely from the bench, but I don’t look at him.
In the second period, we get a power play.
I line up, heart pounding, sweat dripping down my spine. This is where I make my case.
The puck drops. Knox sends it back to me. I hesitate—just a beat too long—and the lane closes. I dump it instead of shooting.
The bench goes quiet.
On the next shift, I make up for it. I crash the net, battle through a defender, and tip a shot that squeaks past the goalie’s pad.
Goal.
The sound hits me all at once—the horn, the bench, the guys piling onto the ice. Rocky slams into me first, shouting something I can’t hear.
I skate back to the bench, chest heaving, adrenaline flooding my system. Coach gives me a short nod.
That’s it. No praise. Just acknowledgment.
We head into the third period up by one.
My legs start to feel heavy. My lungs burn. I don’t care.
Late in the period, they tie it up.
I slam my stick against the boards, frustration flaring hot and fast. Coach calls my number.
I hop over the boards, heart hammering.
I chase down the puck in our zone, take a hit, and spin out of it. I send a pass up the ice to Rocky, who takes off like a rocket. I follow, pushing through the ache in my legs.
Rocky draws two defenders and drops it back to me.
The net’s open for half a second.
I don’t hesitate this time.
I shoot.
The puck rips past the goalie and hits the back of the net so hard it snaps the mesh.
For a split second, everything goes quiet.
Then the bench explodes.
I barely register the pileup, the noise, the way my name echoes through the rink. I just stand there, breathing hard, staring at the goal like I need to make sure it’s real.
We hold the lead.
When the final horn sounds, I bend at the waist, hands on my knees, lungs on fire. The guys swarm me, slapping my helmet, yelling.
Coach catches my eye from across the ice.
He nods once.
Relief crashes through me so hard it almost knocks me over.
In the locker room afterward, the mood is lighter. Music blasting. Guys laughing. Rocky tosses me a towel.
“Told you,” he says.
I smile this time—just a little.
Later, back at the hotel, the adrenaline fades and the quiet creeps in.
I sit on the bed, phone in my hand, staring at Cecily’s name at the top of my messages. My thumb hovers.
I did what I said I’d do.
I proved myself.
But the win doesn’t feel like I thought it would.
The silence still presses in.
I flip the phone face down and lie back, staring at the ceiling.
I fixed my game.
I’m not sure I fixed anything else.
I shower longer than I need to, letting the hot water pound against my neck and shoulders until my skin’s red. The win still hums under my skin, the kind of buzz that usually carries me through the night.
It doesn’t.
Back in the room, the city noise seeps in through the window—cars, voices, something distant and alive. Rocky’s laugh echoes down the hallway somewhere, a door slams, and music starts up two rooms over.
I sit on the edge of the bed and dry my hair with the towel, then toss it aside. My phone’s right where I left it.
Face down.
I flip it over.
Nothing.
No text from Cecily. No missed call. No accidental reaction or emoji. Just the same thread, frozen in time.
No.
I read my reply again, like maybe I can go back in time and change it if I stare long enough.
I told myself I needed space. I told myself complications mess with my focus. I told myself she’d understand.
And maybe she did.
That’s the part that twists in my chest.
She didn’t argue. Didn’t push. Didn’t ask for more. She just… moved on. Maybe she’s with Dane. I press my lips together, clenching my jaw. The thought makes me wild.
The win feels smaller now. Not hollow but sharp around the edges, like it’s cutting into something it shouldn’t be touching.
I lean back against the headboard and close my eyes.
I played well tonight. I did exactly what Coach asked, what the team needed.
And still.
My chest tightens, and I press my palm against it like that might help. I think about the bench last night. The way it felt watching from the outside. The way I promised myself Saturday would make everything click back into place.
It didn’t.
I didn’t lose my game because of her.
I didn’t fail my classes because of her.
And running away and ignoring her didn’t protect anything.
It just made everything quieter.
I sit here longer than I should, phone in my hand, thumb hovering over her name again. I could type something. Anything. I could say I played well. I could say I’m sorry. I could tell her why I left abruptly, knowing Dane was at her house.
I don’t.
Instead, I lock my phone and set it back down on the nightstand.
The room feels too big without the noise.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling, replaying the moment the puck hit the net, the way the bench erupted, the way it felt to be needed.
I wanted to prove to myself that I was right. She’s a distraction I can’t afford.
But did I? I think I just proved the opposite.
This is what I meant to avoid. This empty, quiet, heavy feeling that’s impossible to ignore.