9. Dylan #2
My lips press together, recalling that practice several days ago when some asshole swapped my stick out during a water break for one that had a different curve.
It took me long enough to realize it wasn’t mine and adapt to the different handling that I let enough pucks skate by to make me look like a first-degree idiot.
Not to mention the hour I spent after practice hunting down my actual stick in a storage closet on an admin floor of the stadium.
Of course, that’s not the only prank that has been pulled. I’ve had trash dumped in my locker, gear wrapped in tape so thoroughly that I’ve been late to practice, plus a dozen other little things that only serve to drive me crazy.
Not to mention the whispers and shoves in the hallway between classes, the side-eyes knowingly telling me I don’t belong.
The team is playing at psychological warfare.
What they don’t realize is that I’ve been surviving this game for years already.
It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than stolen gear and dirty looks to get me to back down.
Shaking off the hazing I’ve endured so far, I respond to Wren.
Me
Nah. Just Kyle being his typical asshole self.
Wren
Kyle’s a grade A douche.
Have you tried talking to your Captain about any of it?
I snort to myself at that, casting a surreptitious glance around the parking lot as I cross it, before walking out the gates of BSU and heading down the sidewalk to Athletes Row.
Me
Not sure Ethan is any better. He stopped me on the ice after practice and basically tried to demand respect without earning it. Like being made Captain means respect is automatic. Not impressed!
Wren
He is a good guy, Dylan. Probably just trying to flex the “C” on his jersey, show everyone what kind of Captain he’s going to be.
Me
The kind that has a stick up his ass and lets his team get away with absolute bullshit? Some Captain he is!
Wren
I get that he hasn’t made the best first impression, but I’ve only ever heard people say good things about him.
Me
Good and nice are two different things!
In my experience, Captains don’t stay neutral. I can handle the team on my own. Trust me, this is nothing.
The smell of something savory hits me the moment I step through the door, a warm, tantalizing aroma that makes my stomach growl in protest. I pause, dropping my duffel on the floor and toeing off my Converse.
My muscles ache from the drills I ran this evening— alone since Griffin was noticeably absent.
I hadn’t gotten the same enjoyment from it that I usually do. I was distracted. I thought I kept feeling eyes on me, and my attention kept shifting to the stands, searching, wondering if someone was there watching me. If Kyle was.
It’s the first time I’ve felt that way at BSU, and I hated it.
I hated feeling like I had to be on guard the entire time, mentally preparing myself for an ambush of some sort. I’d ended up calling it quits early and coming home.
The scent of whatever is cooking pulls me forward.
When I reach the threshold of the kitchen, I stop short.
Ethan stands at the counter, slicing vegetables with precision, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Finn is at the stove, stirring a pot that steams in front of him, while Jax moves around the table, setting out plates.
It’s a picture of domesticity I wasn’t expecting from a bunch of college hockey players.
Ethan glances up, noticing me lingering in the doorway. “There you are.” He makes it sound like he’s been waiting for me.
I blink. “What’s going on?”
“House dinner,” he says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world .
“Well, have fun with that.” Ignoring the enticing smell of whatever they are cooking and the grumble of my stomach, I turn on my heel to head up to my room.
“Nu-uh,” Ethan calls, stopping me in my tracks. “You too.”
I go to tell him it’s all right, he doesn’t have to include me. I’m used to doing things on my own, but he talks over me.
“It’s tradition,” he says, pointing his vegetable knife at me. “Night before Roster Day, we sit down together as a house and eat. Since you’re a part of this house now, that includes you.” He sets the knife down and meets my eyes. “And no, it’s not optional.”
Damn .
I debate arguing with him, but something in his tone tells me I’d be wasting my breath. I’ve seen what happens when Ethan is pushed to his limit. There’s no need to be faced with his wrath two days in a row. Instead, I sigh, stepping fully into the kitchen. “What do you want me to do?”
He grins, and I’m momentarily taken aback by how pretty he looks when he smiles.
Ethan is the picture-perfect guy next door with his dark, messy hair and kind gray-blue eyes, but he’s strung as tight as I am—hell, maybe even tighter, which would be saying something.
I’m fairly certain this is the first time I’ve seen him drop his guard and just be in the moment.
Gesturing toward Jax, who is setting out glasses beside each plate, he says, “You can help Jax set the table.”
Nodding, I cross the room to the correct cabinet.
The glasses, of course, are on the top shelf—because when you’re a head taller than I am, everyday convenience doesn’t require the bottom two shelves.
I stretch up onto my toes, my fingers brushing the edge of one of the glasses but not quite getting a grip on it.
Heat suddenly radiates up my back, and I suck in a gasp. “Here,” a low voice murmurs behind me .
I freeze as Jax reaches an arm up and over me, his chest brushing against my shoulder, the heat of him curling along my spine. His other hand finds my waist—firm, steady, far too intentional to be casual.
He grabs the glass with ease, but makes no move to step back. His voice, low and smooth, spills against my neck. “I got it.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe. The proximity, the warmth, the quiet authority in his tone—it all sends my nerves into overdrive. My body reacts before my brain can catch up, my heart thudding in a way I wish it wouldn’t. I can’t want this. Not after everything that happened last year.
Clearing my throat, I step away, putting distance between us as I grab the cutlery instead. “Thanks,” I mutter, keeping my head down.
Jax doesn’t say anything, just resumes setting the table as if the moment hadn’t happened. But I can still feel the lingering warmth where he’d stood too close. Shaking it off, I focus on grabbing silverware from the drawer and laying it out on the table.
The thundering of footsteps down the stairs announces Kyle’s presence before he appears in the doorway, hair still damp from his shower.
He’s dressed in dark pants and a collared shirt, hair slicked back and looking like he’s about to dine at a fancy restaurant.
The rest of us are all casually dressed in sweats or shorts.
Then I realize he’s always dressed the same way when I see him in the cafeteria on campus. Always so polished and put-together like he’s trying to compensate for something.
Gaze sliding to Finn, I recall he typically prefers jeans and formfitting T-shirts that don’t even try to disguise his six-pack abs and bulging biceps that threaten to rip the sleeves at the seams. Although he’s gone casual tonight in low-hanging gray sweats and a loose sleeveless top that shows off the intricate web of tribal tattoos decorating his left arm.
I’ve never seen Jax in anything other than sweats. Even that night he came home after being at a bar with the rest of the team. And why should he wear anything else? He looks fine as hell the way he’s dressed.
Ethan straddles the line between Finn and Kyle.
Not as polished as Kyle, but you can tell he takes pride in his appearance.
He sticks to T-shirts and dark denim jeans or pants, pairing them with sneakers, but there’s never a wrinkle in sight.
Although no matter how smart he looks, his hair is never anything but messy.
There is just no taming that beast. It’s like his hair deliberately refuses to stay in place just to prove to Ethan that no matter how hard he tries, he can’t control everything.
I always find it oddly amusing to watch him shove it away from his face, only for a strand to immediately flop across his forehead.
Kyle stalks into the kitchen, his expression neutral but eyes flashing with tension. Oh joy, isn’t this going to be a fun night. He hasn’t spoken a word to me since yesterday’s confrontation, and I’m not exactly eager to start a conversation with him.
Ethan, as usual, takes control of the situation. “I invited Griff,” he says casually, holding Kyle’s gaze. There’s the slight flaring of Kyle’s nostrils, but that’s his only tell. “I want everyone to clear the air before tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Kyle grumbles. His lack of protest takes me by surprise, and I narrow my eyes, watching him. He doesn’t seem happy about it, but he isn’t fighting back either. Perhaps Ethan’s punishment yesterday knocked some sense into him.
The doorbell rings a few minutes later, announcing Griffin’s arrival, and we all sit down to eat.
The atmosphere is oddly relaxed. Uncomfortable in places, and I can tell the guys are put out by having someone new in their space, but as they fall into easy conversation, rehashing stories about their teenage antics, any lingering tension bleeds out of the air.
“Kyle and I were at this camp when we were, what, fourteen?” Finn is saying, glancing over at Kyle, who nods, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Anyway, we had this coach who was, like, military-level strict. Dude had us up at dawn every day, skating suicides until we puked.”
Kyle leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and a mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. “Coach Bradley. The guy didn’t have an off button. He’d yell at you for breathing too loud.”