4. Jax
JAX
“Drinks at The Stanley!” Finn declares to the locker room. It’s Saturday, and we’ve just finished our final practice of the week.
The room descends into chaos, guys hooting and hollering while others bang their fists against the doors of their lockers.
From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Dylan, stripped to her sports bra and tight shorts that mold to her thighs and ass like a second skin that she wears underneath her gear.
Grabbing her towel and a change of clothes, she hightails it to the showers without sparing any of us a glance.
Despite being surrounded by people she barely knows, she’s at ease in a locker room full of guys who tower over her.
Or at least, she does an excellent job of acting like she is.
Other than at practices, I’ve barely seen her all week. She’s out of the house before any of us get up in the mornings, and she somehow manages to sneak in at night without anyone noticing. It’s clear she’s avoiding us, although I’m not sure how long she thinks she can keep that up for.
Tensions are brewing—at home and on the ice.
After that first day, when she blew the minds of every Steelhawks player by announcing she was the new addition to the team, Ethan pulled us all aside and told us to simply ignore her.
His order had been met with scoffs and challenges.
Even I was skeptical. I mean, has he seen her?
With her sharp eyes that don’t miss a thing and her tight, lithe body, Dylan Carter is impossible to ignore.
He convinced the guys by wisely reminding them that until Roster Day, there’s no point in worrying about her. After all, she might not even be placed. She could end up warming the bench for the entire season, never seeing a minute of ice time.
The only problem with Cap’s logic is that…
she’s good . Seriously fucking good on the ice.
I know I’m not the only one unable to take my eyes off her when she’s got skates on her feet and a stick in her hand.
The way she handles the puck and weaves around behemoth players as though they are practice dummies.
I don’t know if it’s her lighter frame that makes her so damn quick, but in the time it takes to blink, she’s across the rink, ready to sink the puck in the opponent’s net.
While I’d never say it aloud, she’s the fastest forward we’ve got.
And I’m not the only one who has noticed.
As the week has progressed and we’ve seen more and more of what she’s capable of, some of the other guys have started to grow antsy.
They’re nervous—as many of them should be.
It’s clear she’s gunning for their spots.
It wouldn’t surprise me if Coach put her on the third line. Heck, maybe even the second.
The room is abuzz with chatter, everyone happy to see the end of a long week. More than a few of my teammates are moving stiffly, freshmen still adjusting to the rigorous preseason schedule, and more senior students making it obvious they slacked in their conditioning over the summer—idiots.
Someone who has no issue moving with grace and stealth? Dylan Carter. She has breezed through the entire week as though two grueling practices a day, plus daily strength training and cardio workouts, are the norm.
“Ready to go?” Ethan claps me on the shoulder.
He’s changed out of his gear into a pair of formfitting jeans and a loose T-shirt.
I realize I’d been distracted watching Dylan tie up her laces and pack up.
Even now, I watch as she throws her bag over her shoulder and strides toward the door.
She doesn’t say goodbye to anyone, and no one else notices her slip quietly from the room.
Shaking her from my thoughts, I face Ethan. “Yeah, man. A drink sounds good.”
Half an hour later, the team has commandeered all three booths along the back wall of The Stanley.
The bar is steadily filling up—thanks to social media, any students already on campus know we’re here.
They flock to us like birds to water. It’ll only get worse when the school year starts, which is why I agreed to come out tonight, when it’s quieter.
I can’t deal with the craziness when it’s full throttle.
I’m sitting in the middle of our group, elbows on the table, my beer sweating against my palm as I listen to the guys unwind.
“So there I am, half asleep on the bus,” Finn regales, grinning like he’s already cracking himself up.
His voice carries easily over the music and noise around us.
He’s got the entire table’s attention, like always, his hands gesticulating wildly as he tells his story.
“And Griff decides it’s the perfect time to dump a bottle of water on my head.
Not just a splash—no. Full-on arctic shower. ”
Griffin, seated a few spots down, leans back against the booth, his smirk unapologetic.
“I wake up choking, thinking I’m drowning, and who’s standing over me? Griffin. Laughing his ass off like a damn psycho.”
The team descends into hoots of laughter, a couple of guys slapping the table.
“I don’t know how you didn’t kill him,” Kyle retorts, shaking his head.
“Ha.” He tried.
Griffin grins savagely.
“Fucker knew I was out to get him.” Finn shakes his head, before pointing a finger at Griffin. “I will get you—one day, when you least expect it.”
There’s a primal gleam in Griffin’s eye. Nothing that maniac enjoys more than a challenge. “Bring it, O’Rourke.”
“Might wanna sleep with one eye open this season,” Finn taunts. He might be smiling, but there’s a viciousness behind it that lets me know he’s not joking.
Ethan shakes his head at their back-and-forth, but he doesn’t comment. He knows as well as any of us that, as important as it is to focus on the game, it’s vital that we all let off steam. So long as their antics don’t get out of hand, he’ll let it slide.
“We’re gonna crush it this year,” a sophomore whose name I can’t remember says, smirking as he leans in. “All the way, baby.”
“Hell yes!” Kyle raises his glass, the rest of the guys following as they stamp their feet, and a cheering of “Steelhawks! Steelhawks! Steelhawks!” commences until the entire bar joins in the chant.
“No one is touching us this year,” Kyle continues, shouting to be heard. “Not Northern Summit, not Eastwick, not Blackharbor, and not whoever we face in the NCAAs?—”
“Yeah,” a freshman player snorts, “because having a girl on the NSU team worked so well for them. What a joke.” He shakes his head, and murmurs of agreement go up from the guys as the tension shifts .
Kyle leans forward, his grin sharp. “Yeah, well, good thing Coach isn’t that dumb. No way he gives her a starting spot.”
“What if he does?” someone asks him.
He shrugs, his tone light but laced with something darker. “We’ll fix his mistake.”
His words hang in the air, and I use my position as the silent observer to suss out the other players at the table. Some are frowning, not entirely on board with Kyle’s insinuation, but more than a few look as though they agree.
I meet Ethan’s gaze. His eyes are dark with the same tension.
For the most part, Kyle is all talk, but there’s been the odd occasion where he’s taken shit too far.
In that look, we both silently agree that we need to keep an eye on him.
None of us are happy about having Dylan on the team, and I have no idea how it will work if Coach actually gives her a position, but that doesn’t mean we want any harm to come to her.
Hell, part of the reason for not wanting her on the team is because she’s bound to get hurt.
It’s only a matter of time before a larger player crashes into her and she breaks a bone. It’s just reckless on her part. Stupid.
Ethan’s chair creaks as he sits forward, his jaw tight as he surveys the players gathered around us. “You want to win this year?” he asks. His voice is low, calm, but it cuts through the table with sharp precision.
Kyle freezes, his grin faltering, and the freshman straightens in his seat. The whole table goes silent.
Ethan’s gaze sweeps the group, sharp and assessing. “Then focus on your game. Not hers. Not anyone else’s.”
He nods toward the freshman. “Fletcher, you’ve got speed, but your corners are sloppy. Work on that. And, Matthews—” Ah, that’s the sophomore’s name. “—Coach already told you you’re not reading the plays fast enough. Fix it.”
Matthews nods, all of the guys’ postures shifting under their captain’s scrutiny. Even Kyle doesn’t argue, though I can see his jaw clench as he sips his beer.
“Do your job,” Ethan finishes, leaning back again. “The rest will take care of itself.”
The table goes quiet for a beat before Finn breaks it, leaning over to clap Fletcher on the back. “Guess you’re running suicides all next week, huh?”
The tension snaps, and the laughter returns, the conversation moving on. The guys start talking about their summers. I only contribute to the conversation when someone asks a direct question. Otherwise, I nurse my beer and observe.
The table slowly empties as the night wears on, guys peeling off one by one. By the time I decide to call it, half the team’s either at a dartboard or chasing hookups. I push back my chair and drain the last of my drink.
“You heading out?” Ethan asks, disengaging from his conversation with a junior player to look my way as I stand from the table.
“Yeah.”
“All right. It was good to have you out with us.” He knows well enough by now that this isn’t my scene.
Crowds. People. I’d far rather be set up in the living room with a beer and my headset on while I play Call of Duty .
I give him a curt nod. “See you at home.” He returns to his conversation as I stride away from the table, the crowd parting to let me through.
I catch sight of Finn sucking face with some girl at the bar. His mischievous smirk gets him into any girl’s panties faster than anyone I know, and I shake my head as I move past him.