9. Dylan #3
“Exactly.” Finn nods sagely, pointing his fork in agreement. “So one day, Kyle gets it into his head that we should pull a little payback prank. You remember that, Kyle?” Finn grins at his co-conspirator.
Kyle snorts. “Pretty sure it was your idea, Finn. I was just along for the ride.”
“Sure, sure, whatever.” Finn waves him off, with a laugh.
“Anyway, we sneak out of our cabin at, like, midnight and grab his whistle—the one he used to blow directly in our faces every morning. We rig it up to the showerhead in the coaches’ locker room.
Took us forever to figure out how to tie it up so the water pressure would blow it like a foghorn. ”
Kyle chuckles, shaking his head. “And by ‘forever’, he means we spent half the night arguing over the physics of a whistle. I still don’t know how we got it to work.”
Finn ignores the interruption, his grin growing.
His face is alight with devilry as he reaches the climax of his story.
“So, the next morning, Coach goes in for his shower, and we’re all waiting outside, trying not to laugh.
Then—BOOM!” He smacks his hands together for emphasis.
“The whistle goes off like an air raid siren. The guy comes flying out of the locker room, half soapy, yelling his head off about vandals and discipline and who the hell touched his whistle.”
Kyle leans forward, smirking. “And then he trips over his own duffel bag and lands flat on his ass.”
The table erupts in laughter. Even Ethan chuckles as Finn doubles over, tears in his eyes. “Oh, man, I forgot about that,” he wheezes.
“You forgot?” Kyle raises an eyebrow. “You almost got us both kicked out when you couldn’t stop laughing during morning skate.”
The banter continues, easy and natural between the group of boys.
For the first time, I catch a glimpse of Kyle without the perpetual scowl and hostility.
Around the guys, he’s different. There’s a sharp humor to him, a dry wit that fits perfectly into the rhythm of their friendship.
It’s strange to see him like this, relaxed and at ease, as though he’s shed the weight of his animosity toward me.
For a moment, I almost understand why they’re friends with him. Almost.
Pushing his empty plate aside, Ethan leans back, a slight smile playing at his lips as the laughter dies down. His gaze shifts to me, and I tense, already dreading what’s coming. “I’m sure you’ve got a story or two,” he says, voice warm and inviting.
The table falls quiet, all eyes turning to me. My throat tightens, and I force myself to swallow past the lump that’s suddenly formed there.
My mind flickers back to my old team. How I was shunned and ignored. The way my captain used to laugh while I shoved off another teammate’s cheap shot. How I was made to feel like an outsider even when I wore the same jersey as everyone else. Definitely no fun memories there.
Instead, I land on something safer, a story from high school. “Uh…we were in the playoffs in high school, and one of my te ammates—she was a defenseman—accidentally scored on our own net. Like, a perfect shot. Top shelf.”
Griffin snickers, and I let out a shaky laugh, the memory easing the knot in my chest. “She was so pissed at herself, but then she came back in the third and got a hat trick. Completely redeemed herself.”
“That’s badass,” Jax says, grinning.
Finn chuckles, his gaze colliding with mine.
For a minute, I’m blinded beneath the full weight of his focus.
His dazzling smile and dancing eyes. Then, something shifts in his expression, a wall slamming down over his features and blocking me out so suddenly that I feel almost breathless.
It stings more than I want to admit. Ethan’s rule about ignoring me doesn’t apply in the house, so why is he so intent on freezing me out?
“She…” Kyle’s voice has lost any amusement it held earlier, his eyes slicing through me. “So you can play on a girls’ team.”
My body goes rigid, the easy humor evaporating in an instant. The air shifts, the atmosphere turning heavy.
Before Kyle can say anything else, Ethan cuts him off, his voice calm but firm.
“Nope. We’re not doing this.” His tone carries the kind of authority that makes you sit up straighter, even when you’re not the one in trouble.
He leans forward slightly, his sharp gaze pinning Finn first, then Jax and Griffin, before landing on Kyle.
“Tomorrow is Roster Day. We’ve all done our best, worked our hardest, and Coach will make whatever decision is best for the team. ”
Kyle scoffs. “Easy for you to say. Your position isn’t at risk, all for a pathetic PR stunt.”
“ And ,” Ethan continues, raising his voice and talking over Kyle as though he never spoke.
“We will all respect his decision.” His voice hardens, lingering on Kyle a beat too long, a warning simmering just beneath the surface.
“Regardless of our individual positions, all of us are a team. We work together to do what’s right for the team .
So, from here on, there will be no more fighting.
Not on the ice, not in the locker room, and not here. Understood?”
A murmur of agreement goes up around the table, but Ethan isn’t done yet. Fixing Griffin with his piercing stare, he gestures toward Kyle and inquires, “Are you two good?”
“If Reed doesn’t have a problem with me, then I don’t have a problem with him. I’m here to make sure when you idiots fuck up, the other team doesn’t get a goal.” He softens his statement with a crooked smile.
“Har har.” Jax jabs him with his elbow, rolling his eyes.
“Please,” Finn teases. “The only reason you’re the number one goalie in the state is because we make your job a breeze.”
The mood lightens somewhat, but the damage is done. The easy atmosphere from before dissipating like smoke in the air.
“Thanks for dinner,” Griffin says a short while later as he pushes his chair back and stands, glancing briefly around the table. His gaze lingers on Kyle for half a second, some of that boyish charm hardening into steel, before he looks away, waving goodbye as he walks out of the room.
I watch him go, my fingers fiddling with my knife.
I should probably say something—acknowledge what he did for me yesterday in the locker room.
Except…what would I even say? Thanks? For what?
All he said was that I’m better than Kyle, which isn’t exactly a groundbreaking statement.
Everyone knows that, even if they are unwilling to say it aloud.
It’s a low bar if I’m going to start thanking anyone who gives me the mildest compliment.
Maybe I should apologize? But again, for what? It’s not like I asked Kyle to start shit with him. None of this is my fault. Griffin doesn’t seem like the type who wants pity, and an apology from me would probably come across as just that.
In the end, I decide not to say anything. If Griffin shows up in the sports center or on the ice tomorrow, we’ll go back to the routine we’ve established—ignoring each other unless absolutely necessary. And if he doesn’t…well, I’m used to being alone.
Shaking off the thought, I focus on the clinking of dishes. Kyle has disappeared upstairs, and I can hear the TV on in the living room, along with Ethan’s and Jax’s low voices as they watch the highlight reel of a recent game.
Forcing myself to move, I grab a dish towel and join Finn at the sink. He is already elbow deep in soapy water, scrubbing a plate.
“I’ll dry,” I tell him, keeping my voice neutral.
He tenses beside me, his shoulders stiffening at my close proximity, but he doesn’t tell me to leave. I pick up a clean plate, drying it methodically while the silence stretches between us.
Eventually, I glance at him from beneath my eyelashes, my frustration bubbling over. “What’s your problem with me?”
The only response I get is the tightening of his jaw as he scrubs harder at a pot.
“The rule doesn’t apply in the house,” I press, my voice sharpening. “So, why are you giving me the cold shoulder?”
Still nothing.
“Is it because I didn’t tell you who I was right away that first day? ’Cause, if so, that’s unfair. I was caught completely off guard. I didn’t know what to do, what was?—”
Finn slams the pot down, the loud clang making me jump. Before I can react, he moves.
In a blur, he closes the distance between us, his wet hands gripping the edge of the countertop on either side of me. The hard edge presses into my back as he pins me there, our chests barely brushing. His face is inches from mine, and I can feel his breath, warm and ragged, fanning over my cheek.
My own breathing turns shallow, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Finn… ”
His gaze drops to my lips, green eyes turning molten. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and gravelly. “You’re about to destroy my best friend,” he says, his words cutting and raw. “And instead of worrying about him, all I can think about is doing this.”
His mouth crashes against mine. It’s quick—just a press of lips, firm and demanding—but it sends a jolt through me, leaving me shaken.
Then, as quickly as it began, it’s over. He abruptly pulls back, his eyes not quite meeting mine as he turns to pick up the pot he’d dropped.
Dazed, confused, and shocked, I blink at him for a full minute before I shove out of the kitchen. My hands tremble as I sprint for the stairs, and my heart is still racing when I reach the relative safety of my room.
Inside, I lean against the door as I bring my fingers to my lips. The memory of his touch lingers as I try to make sense of what happened.
But no matter how hard I try, I can’t.