3. Dylan
DYLAN
Unsurprisingly, things went downhill after my warm welcome in the locker room. Everyone on the team gave me such a wide berth throughout practice that you’d think I was carrying the bubonic plague.
Despite the distance, from the second practice began, with dynamic warm-ups and drills, I felt eyes on me. It didn’t matter whether I was sitting on the bench while the defense ran drills or on the ice performing wrist shots. I was constantly being watched. Assessed. Judged.
I’d forgotten how exhausting it is. As if an early morning practice after a restless night’s sleep in the new house I now share with four of my teammates isn’t exhausting enough.
By the time practice ended, I was so done with peopling for the day.
Except I couldn’t go back to my room and hide out there.
I wasn’t yet ready to face my new roommates.
Their outrage. Their questions. Hell no.
Yesterday, I’d deliberately hightailed it to my room as soon as Finn invited me inside.
I couldn’t have sat downstairs with him and the others once they returned and pretended I wasn’t who I am.
Nor was I comfortable admitting the truth.
I’d wanted the news to come out the way it did—on territory I was familiar with.
In a setting where I felt confident. Where I was in control.
However, because I hid away in my room last night, I didn’t get the chance to suss out who else I’d be living with.
But I’d hazard a guess they’re the three other Steelhawks who entered the locker room with Finn this morning: Ethan Maddox, Jaxon “Jax” Keller, and Kyle Reed—my archnemesis since it’s his spot I plan on taking.
Sorry, Kyle. I’d say it’s nothing personal, but I’m pretty sure he won’t see it that way when he gets beat out by a girl.
To say I’m intimidated to be sleeping under the same roof as three of the prime NHL draft picks for this season would be an understatement.
I’ve admired Ethan’s hand-stick coordination from afar for years now.
And the way he moves down the ice is just…
I’d love to know how someone his size can move with such explosive agility.
It should be impossible, and yet Ethan Maddox makes the impossible possible.
Plus, have you seen that guy when he takes his helmet off?
Delicious . That’s literally the best word to describe him.
He is a tall glass of water in the height of summer.
Wavy brown hair that he’s never quite able to contain.
Pale blue eyes that pierce right through you.
Sharp jawline with a five-o’clock shadow that makes me shiver, imagining how it would feel against my skin.
Today was my first time seeing him up close without his helmet and gear on, and he was even more spectacular than I could have imagined. I struggled to keep my eyes off him.
Of course, any time I managed to rip my gaze away, it would land on either Finn or Jax.
Both as cruelly hot, and also star players and shoo-ins for the NHL.
Their talent on the ice is unmatched. So is their talent off the ice…
or so I hear. Finn has playboy written all over him, and his reputation as a ladies’ man precedes him .
Where it’s evident that Finn uses his charisma and flirty winks to get what he wants, Jax is his opposite. He’s quiet, contemplative. He didn’t say a word this morning, yet I could tell he was taking in the entire confrontation, assessing it from a hundred different angles.
He’s built like a tank, towering above the other players and easily twice as wide as I am.
With jet-black hair and matching eyes. He paints an intimidating picture.
One that has me hoping I don’t run into him some night on my way to the bathroom.
It’s always the quiet ones you need to watch out for, so I’ll be keeping a close eye on Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody.
I was surprised to see Kyle with them. He’s not in the same league as the others, although, I guess, considering they’re all seniors, it makes sense that they live together.
Truthfully, if Kyle wasn’t my competition, I’d have no idea who he was.
He doesn’t stand out on the ice. Not the way the others do.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good player, but I’m better.
Which is why, in a few short weeks when Bea— Coach —announces the lines for this year, he’ll be relegated to second while I’ll be sitting up front in first.
Having delayed the inevitable long enough, it’s early evening when I pull up to the curb out front of the house. If I want to avoid sleeping in my car tonight, I need to go in and get the second standoff of the day out of the way.
Who knows, maybe it won’t be as bad as the first one.
Ha, yeah. Who am I kidding?
It’s bad enough that I’m invading their team, but now I’m also invading their home life?
They are going to be pissed with a capital P.
And I can’t totally blame them. Change is challenging.
To have that change happen on two fronts isn’t easy to deal with.
I just hope when they go away and think about it and allow the reality of the situation to settle in, that they’ll stop being so defensive about having someone who doesn’t have a certain appendage dangling between her legs invading their territory.
Opening the front door, I walk into a narrow hallway.
Coats are hung up on hooks, shoes are haphazardly kicked to the side, and duffel bags are dropped ceremoniously by the door.
I’m hit in the face with the stench of sweat, my face scrunching.
Jesus . How long have those duffels been sitting there?
Can men not grasp the concept of sticking their sweaty gear in the washing machine as soon as they get home?
The hallway opens into a large living room with two three-seater sofas and a smaller cuddle chair.
A ridiculously large TV is hung on the wall with game consoles lined up beneath it.
I was too frenzied last night to take anything more in before bolting up the stairs, so I take the time now to run my eyes over the dark wood paneling, the thick brown window frames, and cream walls.
The hardwood floor beneath my feet is scraped and scarred from decades of abuse, and everything screams masculinity, but the space is surprisingly cozy, with light flooding the room through the large bay window.
On my right is the kitchen with wooden cupboards and granite countertops. A large island sits in the middle of the room, barstools along one side, and a kitchen table that seats six set to the left. Other than this morning’s dishes stacked in the sink, the place is surprisingly clean and tidy.
I know they haven’t explicitly cleaned up for me, and some of the tension leaves my shoulders. At least they aren’t complete slobs. I hadn’t realized until now that I’d been worried about that, but I can live with smelly practice gear as long as the house is clean.
While I’ve been taking in the space I’ll be calling home for the rest of the year, all four of them have been watching me . I’d made a point of ignoring their presence in the living room, but now I’ve nowhere left to look but at them.
Slowly, taking a bolstering breath, I swivel my gaze in their direction.
Finn and Kyle sit side by side on one of the sofas, elbows on their knees and gaming controllers forgotten in their hands as they stare at me with wary and reserved expressions.
Jax is lounging on the other sofa, arm slung over the back of the cushion.
He’s attempting to be casual, but there’s no hiding the calculating look in his eyes.
Ethan is the only one who has gotten to his feet. His posture is closed off, with his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest and lips pressed into a flat line.
I watch them, and they watch me, no one breaking the tense silence. Perhaps they’re as unsure about what to say as I am.
“You didn’t think to say anything last night?” Finn practically growls, tossing his controller carelessly onto the coffee table.
Or not.
“It made sense to do it with the entire team present.” I can see the argument blazing in his eyes before he even opens his mouth, and I cut him off. “Besides, I was as caught off guard seeing you as you were me.”
His brow furrows. “So you knew who I was then?”
“Kind of essential to know who I’ll be lining up with, don’t you think?”
A scoff has my gaze snapping to Kyle, my jaw setting.
Shifting my attention to their captain, I state, “Ethan Maddox. Center and this year’s captain.
Twenty-six goals last season. Thirty-nine assists.
Second in the conference for points per game, right behind that winger from Valehurst. You’re one of the smartest players on the ice—rarely penalized, never out of position.
You can control the tempo of a game almost single-handedly. ”
His jaw tightens, but there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes. I keep going.
“Finn,” I say next, shifting my focus to him.
The smirk he’d been wearing falters a little.
“Right wing. You led the league in blocked shots last season—ninety-one total. You stood in front of more pucks than most goalies do in a season. You play like a wrecking ball—doesn’t matter if it’s an opponent or a wall, you’re going through it.
Nobody hits harder or fights dirtier when it counts, and every guy on this team knows it. ”
Long gone is Finn’s smirk, his lips slightly parted in surprise, even as he crosses his arms over his chest.