6. Dylan
DYLAN
I’m sitting in the cafeteria on Wednesday morning, enjoying a quiet breakfast after a particularly grueling practice. I poke at my scrambled eggs, tuning out the chatter of students around me, the clattering of plates, and scraping of cutlery as I replay the fiasco.
It was a simple drill. Passing under pressure, keeping the puck moving in tight quarters. One-touch passes. Quick hands; clean execution. Kyle and I were paired up, supposed to work together. It’s not the first time I’ve been paired with other players, or even with Kyle.
But today…I sent him a pass, tape to tape, but instead of taking it cleanly, the puck ricocheted off his stick and skittered across the ice.
And because Kyle will look for any excuse to make me look bad, he didn’t chase after it.
Instead, he rounded on me, his voice cutting through the rink like a slap.
“ Jesus , Dylan. What did the puck ever do to you? You’re supposed to pass it, not attempt to take me out with it.”
Before I could tell him I didn’t hit it that hard, he was away on a tangent.
“Thank God your accuracy is shit. You could have done some serious damage if that had hit me. What if you’d clocked me in the face, huh?” Shaking his head, he’d tacked on, “You seriously need to work on your sloppy passes.”
Sloppy.
He called my passes sloppy. Even now, I squeeze my fork tighter, wishing I could jam the utensil into Kyle’s throat. In my head, I’ve played that pass a hundred times since this morning. It was clean. The puck was right on target—and no, it wasn’t going too fast. Kyle just couldn’t handle it.
Loosening my grip and focusing on the pile of food in front of me, my fork scrapes across the plate, the sound sharp and grating.
It wasn’t just what he said, it was the way he said it—loud, pointed, like he wanted everyone in the rink to hear.
Like he wanted to make sure I knew my place.
And it worked, didn’t it? Every guy on the ice stopped what they were doing to look at me like I’d done something wrong.
I chew mechanically on my toast, appetite long gone as I silently fume. I can still feel the weight of their stares, the silent judgment. Like Kyle’s words were a confirmation of every single doubt they had about me.
The idea of the drill might have been to build chemistry, to get used to working with a teammate under game-like conditions, but all it did was prove what I already knew—that I’m not welcome in the Steelhawks’ arena.
Not in their locker room.
Not on their team.
And definitely not on their ice.
I’m still stewing over the fact that Kyle went on and on until Ethan came over and dragged him away, cheeks flaming just remembering the look Bea—Coach—gave me as I skated off the ice, when the sound of someone clearing their throat drags me back into the here and now.
I blink into the present, finding three girls standing over me.
What is it with this school and everyone walking around in threes and towering over me?
Each of them is holding a tray containing food, and for a second, I think they’re about to ask if they can sit with me.
I’ve been eating alone all week—not that I mind. I’m plenty used to it.
But, of course, they aren’t here to join me. That becomes apparent as I take in the mirroring sneers on each of their faces.
“You think you’re better than us?” the one in the middle snarks.
Her hair is a perfectly straight bleach-bottle blonde, falling halfway down her back.
She’s wearing a tight, white, short-sleeved sweater that only enhances the double-D rack she’s got going for her.
A sliver of creamy skin is visible above the waistband of her baby pink miniskirt, her long legs accentuated by the six-inch heels she’s wearing.
Seriously, who wears six-inch heels to class? You’re just asking for a broken ankle.
Her friends are similarly dressed—for fashion or attention, I don’t know which. Certainly not for comfort or academics. Since I have no idea who she or her friends are, I keep my lips tightly sealed.
Twirling a lock of that sunshine blonde hair around her perfectly manicured finger, she continues, “What sort of person goes to such lengths just to get close to them?” I still have no clue what she’s rambling on about.
“If you’re not pretty enough to be a puck bunny—which, honey, you’re not—then accept your calling in life. ”
A…what now?
Her minions titter, like her insult is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.
“Don’t resort to such desperate lengths as to try and get on the same team as them.”
Ah, of course. I should have known this had to do with a woman being on the all-boys team— previously all-boys team .
It takes a moment for her words to penetrate, and when they do, I can’t help but laugh. It’s a sharp, loud noise that draws the attention of nearby tables, including the one where most of the team is currently situated. I feel their eyes on me, but I don’t look away from the girl in front of me.
Smugness bleeds into my expression as I curl one side of my lips in a smirk. “Jealous?”
Lips parted, an undignified scoff escapes her.
“Of you?” She makes a point to lower her gaze over my body.
I’m wearing sweats and a loose-fitted T-shirt.
So no, I don’t look anything close to as good as she does, but if she’d gotten up at 5 a.m., ran, and done weights before a two-hour session on the ice, she wouldn’t be walking around in that getup either. “Never.”
“Then why are you interrupting my breakfast?” My brow furrows in confusion as I make a point of fixing scrambled eggs on top of my toast and taking a massive bite.
With her tray clutched in her hands, she leans in until we’re nose to nose. I can smell the sickly-sweet odor of her perfume. It’s…gag-worthy.
“Not one of them is interested in you.”
Slowly chewing my mouthful of food, I raise my eyebrows, eyes going wide in a, So? What’s your point?
“You might be their plaything on the ice, but we are their playthings in bed.”
Ewww, nope. I gag around my mouthful of food, and it takes everything in me to swallow and not spit it out. Bet she doesn’t struggle with swallowing. She’d have probably made it look effortless. Even added a fake moan for extra credit.
She turns to walk away but throws one last parting shot over her shoulder. “Have fun pretending you’re one of them, Bench Bunny .”
Mouth agape, I don’t get the chance to tell her that she can have every single guy on that team.
They’re all hers. Looks like she already got the memo, though, as she drops her tray in the spot beside Finn.
Of course it’s Finn she sits beside—playboy extraordinaire.
He drapes an arm around her waist like it’s second nature to him, turning to face her with that same cheeky smile he used on me that first day when he answered the door.
A smile he hasn’t directed my way once since finding out why I’m here. Although it would be pretty hard for him to do that while pretending I don’t exist. My gut twists, but I promptly ignore it, tearing my gaze away from Finn.
The other two girls have cozied up beside Kyle and a junior defenseman. I only glance at their table long enough to make my breakfast churn unpleasantly in my stomach before grabbing my things and hightailing it out of the cafeteria.
Bowl of popcorn in hand, I absently shove another handful into my mouth. My eyes are glued to the TV, the dim light illuminating the otherwise dark living room as I lean against the couch cushions, a blanket draped over my lap.
The sound of the movie fills the space. I hadn’t planned on watching a movie tonight, but when I saw A League of Their Own while flipping through the channels, I couldn’t resist.
A night off. Just me, the couch, and a young Tom Hanks. It’s been a while since I let myself do something that didn’t feel like a calculated move toward a goal.
My hand stalls halfway to my mouth, and I lean forward. Anticipation thrums through my veins as my favorite part of the movie approaches, and I mouth the words as Jimmy Dugan tells Dottie Hinson, “It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great.”
I internally squeal!
That line gets me every time .
Moisture burns the backs of my eyes, a pang of nostalgia hitting me square in the chest.
The front door slams, yanking me out of the moment. My heart jumps, and I sit up straighter. The blanket slips off my lap, exposing my bare thighs beneath the pajama shorts I’m wearing. Heavy footsteps thud closer before the guys fill the doorway one by one.
Ethan is carrying a stack of pizzas, his expression unreadable as he takes me in, sitting on the couch. Finn is right behind him, his face blank, but his eyes flicker briefly over me before darting away. Kyle follows him in, stopping in his tracks when he spots me.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Charming as ever. Seems he still hasn’t gotten over his sloppy stickhandling yesterday.
I raise an eyebrow, returning my focus to the TV and dismissing all of them as I grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl on my lap. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Well, you can piss off. We’re having a guys’ night.”
I shrug, popping a kernel into my mouth. “Cool. Enjoy.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Kyle’s face darken. It’s noticeable, even in the low lighting. He’s practically vibrating with fury, realizing that he isn’t going to get a rise out of me.
Ethan must realize that he’s about to blow as he gestures upstairs and mutters, “Just go. We’ll deal with this.”
Kyle huffs, shifting on his feet before he stomps toward the stairs. “Call me when the she-bitch is gone,” he calls over his shoulder before stalking up them. His footsteps smack loudly against each step until a door slams in the distance.