9. Dylan
DYLAN
The confrontation with Kyle and my argument with Ethan still burns under my skin as I trudge into the locker room. My legs feel like lead, and my arms ache from practice, but none of it compares to the frustration boiling in my chest.
“Such a menace,” Jax whispers under his breath as he stalks past me. “Causing trouble wherever you go.” His eyes latch on to mine, amusement dancing in his dark depths.
He’s marching over to his own locker before I can say anything.
And perhaps that’s for the best, given my altercation with Ethan by the rink.
Not that I regret what I said. He was the one in the wrong.
He’s been making the wrong calls, starting with his stupid ignore me rule.
What sort of harebrained nonsense is that, anyway?
Stupidest advice I’ve ever heard. Since when does burying your head in the sand and pretending something doesn’t exist actually solve anything?
Shaking my head, I keep my eyes down, ignoring the stares from other players as they glance over my skin.
Despite how he reacted, Ethan was right about one thing.
I shouldn’t have let Kyle get to me like that.
I know better. Ignore the shit they say.
Tune it out. Let it slide off. But it’s hard— so damn hard —to pretend it doesn’t prickle when someone’s constantly talking shit about you, blaming you for things you didn’t do.
My throat tightens as my fingers fumble with the straps on my gear, but I shove it down.
Stripping off my pads, I set them aside in neat piles.
Beneath my gear, I’ve got on a sports bra and tight shorts that I’ll strip off once I’m in the shower cubicle.
My skin is damp with sweat, which quickly cools in the locker room’s air conditioning. However, I barely notice.
What I do notice is Ethan. I watch him strip out of his gear from the corner of my eye, still unable to wrap my head around the fact that he stepped in between me and Kyle.
Kyle was about to lose it—I could see it in the way his eyes narrowed and his shoulders hunched.
I’ve seen that look before. I know what happens next.
I was already bracing myself, ready to shove him off if he tried something.
That’s what I’ve always had to do. My old team? No one ever stepped in. Not the players, not the coach, and definitely not the captain. He didn’t care if the guys cornered me after practice or slammed me into the boards during drills.
At least, not until last year…
I shake my head, jaw clenched tight.
Definitely not fucking going there.
But Ethan…his stepping in today feels strange. I don’t trust it.
Of course, he acted like a douche afterward, but still…
With more force than necessary, I yank the polyester pants over my hips before kicking them off. As I bend to retrieve them, the noise rises sharply around me, pulling me from my thoughts. I glance up, my brow furrowing as the tension in the room thickens.
Kyle is in Griffin’s face, his voice loud and cutting, and the other guys have gathered around them in a loose circle.
“What’s it like, Griffin?” Kyle taunts. “Playing hero for her? Thought we weren’t supposed to acknowledge her, yet you’ve been helping her improve her skills in your private, late-night lessons.”
My stomach pitches.
He saw us.
He must have been watching our practice yesterday. It’s the only time we’ve interacted, spoken a single word to each other. I hate that Kyle was privy to that. Hate that he was there, watching me when I didn’t know it.
Griffin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react to the accusation. He just stands there, calm and unbothered, unpeeling the tape from his stick.
Kyle steps closer, his words dripping venom. “What’s the deal? Trying to impress her? Hoping she’ll spread her legs in some grand prize? Or are you just desperate to be her white knight because no one else will bother?”
Griffin’s blank stare breaks into a mocking grin stretching across his face. It’s infuriatingly calm, like Kyle is just another minor inconvenience in his day. He laughs lightly, the sound completely devoid of warmth.
“For someone who talks so much shit about her, you’re sounding pretty fucking jealous right now.”
Kyle’s face flushes red, and his fists curl. He looks ready to explode at Griffin’s insinuation.
Griffin’s grin only widens, like he’s enjoying pushing Kyle to the edge. Toying with him. “Nah, you’re not jealous ’cause you want her.” His tone turns sharp as glass. “You’re mad ’cause she’s better than you, and everyone in here knows it.”
That’s it. Kyle snaps. He shoves Griffin hard, the sound of his hands hitting Griffin’s chest protector echoing off the walls.
Griffin doesn’t move an inch. He’s only fractionally taller than Kyle, but he’s had years of defending his corner, never deviating from the crease.
However, his expression shifts so fast it sends a chill racing through me.
The easy grin vanishes, replaced with something cold and lethal.
His typically guarded light blue eyes harden into shards of ice.
“Lay a finger on me again, and I’ll break you so thoroughly they won’t even know how to piece you back together.
” Griffin’s voice is low and deadly. There’s no bluster, no anger—just pure, calm calculation.
It should be frightening. I mean, it is.
I sense he isn’t just being dramatic—he means it.
And yet, I find myself curious more than anything else.
I tilt my head slightly, studying him. This version of him is so different from the Griffin I typically see laughing and joking in the locker room, the one who wears boyish charm like a second skin. Now, he’s all sharp edges and quiet menace, and I can’t tell which version of him is more real.
Something in my gut tells me this is the real Griffin.
The one more in line with the reserved, quiet version I share the rink and gym with out of hours. Does that mean that the smiles and jokes are all a front? A mask he wears for the world?
The air in the room has been stretched thin, every player stopping what they were doing to watch. I swear, you could hear a pin drop.
“Then you won’t have to worry about Dylan stealing your spot. It’ll be all hers for the taking.” He finishes delivering his threat. Am I the only one who has goosebumps?
Kyle steps closer, fists clenched as the tension in the air turns thunderous. However, before he can do something monumentally stupid, Ethan storms over.
“I’m getting seriously fucking sick of pulling teammates apart like they are misbehaving toddlers throwing a tantrum,” he yells, grabbing Kyle by the back of his jersey and yanking him away.
Kyle stumbles, chest heaving as he glares at Ethan, but Ethan’s face is pure stone as he stares him down. It’s clear he has reached his daily limit for the amount of bullshit he will tolerate.
“Get back on the ice,” he orders Kyle, voice like steel as he shoves him toward the door. “Skate suicides until your legs give out, then bag drills until you can’t even hold your stick upright.”
I lift my hand to cover the smirk I can’t—and don’t want to—squash.
Kyle’s mouth gapes, indignation clear to read on his face, but Ethan doesn’t give him a chance to argue. “You’ve done nothing but pick fights today, Kyle.”
“Yeah, but?—”
“ I am the captain.” The lockers literally shake with the force of Ethan’s voice as it echoes off the walls. “You will obey me, or you can walk out that door, but if you do, don’t bother coming back.”
The locker room is dead silent now. Even Griffin, who’d gone back to peeling the tape from his stick, has gone still, his sharp gaze flicking between Ethan and Kyle.
Kyle’s glare hardens, his lips pressed into a tight line.
For a moment, I think he’s going to storm out.
I’m hoping he does. But then his jaw works as though chewing on something particularly bitter before he nods, not quite meeting Ethan’s eye.
Turning on his heel, he throws open the door and stomps toward the ice.
A heavy silence settles over the room in Kyle’s wake. Ethan exhales slowly, his shoulders still tense as he turns back to the team. “Anyone else got a problem they want to work out?” His voice is calm now, but there’s an edge to it that makes it clear he’s done taking anyone’s crap.
No one says a word.
Ethan nods once, sharp and decisive. “Good. Hit the showers then get the fuck out of here.”
My gaze slides back to Griffin, finding him already staring at me. He holds my gaze for a moment, something passing between us that I can’t grasp, before that charming grin slips back into place like a well-worn mask.
I look away, shaking my head as I grab my towel and head for the showers. But I can’t help glancing back at him one last time, that icy look still burning in my mind.
My phone pings as I step out the stadium doors, the fresh air blowing away some of the exhaustion from a grueling practice, followed by a self-inflicted skate around the ice to blow off steam.
Rolling out the ache in my shoulders that tells me I’ve pushed myself too hard today, I fish my phone from my bag, finding a message from Wren.
For the first time all day, a smile graces my lips.
Despite her fangirling, I returned to the library the next day, finding Wren in the same spot behind the reception desk.
We ate lunch together, and it has become a near-daily routine, when our schedules align.
I’ve opened up to her somewhat regarding the conflict between myself and my new team members, so I’m not surprised when I see her question.
Wren
How was practice?
I immediately type out a response, as I slowly make my way down the stadium steps, leg muscles straining. Ugh, I’m going to have to soak in the bath when I get home if I want to avoid being stiff as hell tomorrow.
Me
Went about as well as a root canal with no anesthetic.
Wren
Ouch. Did someone swap your stick out again?