22. Griffin
GRIFFIN
Rolling my shoulders, I stretch my neck from side to side as I make my way down the dark corridor toward the gym.
It’s so early that only strips of lighting on either side of the floor light my path.
The muscles in my back pop with tension, and my confrontation with Ethan last night plays out in my head.
Of course the ever-watchful captain saw my exchange with Dylan in the cafeteria yesterday, and he demanded to know if I was the one pulling this shit on Kyle.
I didn’t say a word, obviously. Straitlaced, rule-abiding, good boy Ethan would never approve. But then, if he were doing his job as captain and keeping Kyle in line—and him and his goons away from Dylan—I wouldn’t have to step in.
Am I the only one who notices the way he looks at those two dumb fuckers, Monroe and Fletcher, before one of them invariably goes after Dylan?
Did Ethan not see how Fletcher nearly snapped Dylan’s arm in practice?
He had her flat against the boards, her arm bent so far back I was waiting anxiously to hear it pop any second.
Thank fuck my girl’s a fighter and managed to get herself out of there, but I saw the way she favored her right side after that, babying her arm for the rest of practice. So how the fuck did Ethan not?!
Ethan is a decent enough guy. A fine captain, but I came so fucking close to punching him in the face last night. He’s so fucking busy ignoring Dylan and pretending that she doesn’t exist, that she doesn’t take up more of his focus than she should, that he’s missing the fucking obvious.
Jax sees it. Or he sees some of it. After Dylan’s ass-chewing last week, he’s backed off.
He has to turn away when he sees one of them go after her.
Honestly, I’m fighting the same urges he is whenever I see one of them tackling her, but I know Dylan can handle her own.
She proves it every damn time she’s on the ice.
Stepping into the gym, I find the woman of my obsession pacing back and forth in front of the weight rack.
I stop at the threshold, held captive for a moment.
Dylan Carter always looks hot as sin when she is working out—Lycra shorts that mold to the lean muscles of her upper thighs and accentuate the firm globes of her ass and her sports bra that leaves nothing except the exact color of her nipples to the imagination.
A color that I am dying to find out. I’m rock hard in my basketball shorts just staring at her.
If the guys had any idea how she dressed when working out, they’d all be in here at the ass crack of dawn.
But then I’d have to kill every single one of my teammates, so yeah, I’ll be keeping that tidbit to myself.
This is my secret. My time to have Dylan all to myself.
An obsession is exactly what Dylan has become. I’ve always been prone to bouts of fixation and compulsion. It’s why I’m the best goalie in the league. I give it every single ounce of my focus and attention, and I have done so since a stick was first slapped in my hand at the age of five.
But for the first time ever, something else has superseded that obsession.
Some one else. Dylan. From the moment I saw her in that locker room wearing the Steelhawks gear, I haven’t been able to look away.
I fought it initially. Tried to ignore her, to ignore the pull toward her, but it was fucking impossible.
Ever since I watched her struggling that night on the ice…
I saw her resilience, her determination to succeed, and her drive to keep going.
I recognized a part of myself in her. With every interaction since, that obsession has only grown stronger, more potent, until she’s become all that I can focus on.
Dylan has torn through my life like a hurricane I never saw coming. She came in fast, fierce, and unstoppable, upending the careful order of my world. Now, in the aftermath, all I see is her.
I’m drawn to her like the tide to the shore.
Every time she lifts her chin and that defiant gleam enters her eyes, or when she thinks no one is looking and she finally drops her guard, allowing me to catch a glimpse of the well of sadness that resides within.
It only pulls me closer. I’m so invested in this girl that I’d do absolutely anything for her—all she has to do is ask.
I’ve watched every bit of game footage of her I can find online.
I’ve memorized her schedule and make a point of walking past her classroom or seeking her out from a distance during the day to make sure she’s okay and no one is harassing her, and dole out retribution if they are.
And since no one else is bothering to help her out with her Kyle problem, I’ve taken that upon myself too.
Dylan is my crease—my territory, my purpose. No matter where I am, how far I stray, I always find myself back in the blue, ready to defend what’s mine.
Today, though, my hurricane is spitting mad.
I take a moment to soak in all that fire.
I love seeing her like this—nostrils flaring, a hint of fury in her cheeks, every sharp movement crackling with frustration.
It’s a far cry from the moments when the fight drains out of her, and she looks like she’s sinking beneath the weight of whatever she’s carrying.
Like when I spotted her sitting on that bench at the roster party, lost in her head and staring at nothing.
I couldn’t stand to see her suffering like that, all alone.
I shift in the doorway. The movement catches her attention, and she whirls toward me. Those hazel eyes of hers flare, the flecks of gold sparking like the embers of a fire.
“Looking fierce this morning, Hurricane.”
Ignoring my greeting, she marches toward me.
Hands out, she smacks her palms against my chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” she growls, and damn , it’s sexy as hell.
That spark. The twin flames in her eyes.
The burn of her hands as they sear into my chest. My entire life has been ice—cold, clinical, and calculated.
Hockey, routine, order. The same drills, the same structure, the same predictable patterns.
But Dylan is the ember buried in the frost. She is heat and passion and chaos, turning everything I know to ash.
I spent years thinking I had everything I needed, but now I know better. Now I know what it means to crave .
I wonder how she’d react if I kissed her right now?
Before I can find out, she hits me again with those dainty little hands of hers. How can a hockey player have such nice hands? Mine are rough and calloused from hours spent gripping my stick and catching pucks going 90 mph.
“You went too far, Griffin!” With one final smack of her hands against my chest, she stomps away, huffing and spitting fire before whirling on me again. “What you did to Kyle, it was too far.”
I tilt my head, watching her like a predator sizing up its prey. “Too far?” I repeat, letting the words roll off my tongue, testing them. “I warned him, Dylan. Told him exactly what would happen if he kept fucking with you. He made his choice.”
Her jaw clenches, and I see the moment she realizes arguing with me won’t be easy, but my hurricane never backs down from a fight. “You humiliated him,” she bites out, her hands curling into fists. “Publicly. You made him a joke.”
“So?” I say, unbothered. Honestly, he’s lucky I didn’t do fucking worse.
If he continues to fucking mess with her, what I did in the cafeteria will look like child’s play in comparison to what happens next.
It’s only going to get worse for Kyle until he stops.
Even then, I might completely destroy him just for daring to ruin what’s mine.
“He’s been gunning for you since the minute you showed up here.
Don’t think I don’t know that he’s got those dumb-ass freshmen going after you too.
One of them nearly snapped your fucking arm! ”
Her breath hitches, eyes widening in surprise. Yeah, sweetheart, I saw that. I see everything. She shakes her head, refusing to let me sway her. “That’s not the point.”
“It’s exactly the point,” I snap, taking a large step closer.
“You can ignore him all you want, but he’s not going to stop coming after you, Dylan.
Not until you’re incapacitated. Until he’s wiped you from the board—for good.
” Another step forward has me close enough to catch a whiff of her shampoo—peach and bergamot.
It’s perfectly Dylan—sweet and fresh with a zesty tinge.
But sometimes that sharp edge of hers just needs an extra bite .
“People like Kyle only understand one thing—power. And right now, he knows you have none.”
She glares up at me, furious, but I see something else beneath it. Something raw. Fear? Pain? I can’t tell, but I hate it.
“I know exactly what people like Kyle understand,” she seethes, damn near bristling as her eyes burn into mine.
Still, her fury only coaxes me closer, her throat bobbing at my proximity.
“And I don’t need you, or anyone else, fighting my battles.
” There’s not the same grit behind her words this time, not the same conviction.
It tugs at me, the hint of weariness in her tone. How many other fuckers like Kyle has she had to go up against? To fight on her own.
I laugh. Actually laugh. Low and dark and mocking. “Yeah, you do, Hurricane. You just don’t want to admit it.”
Her breath shudders, and I take a final step forward, crowding her and forcing her to crane her neck to meet my stare. “I protect what’s mine,” I tell her, my voice dropping to something rough and unyielding. “And you? You are mine.”
Her lips part, a shaky breath escaping, but she doesn’t pull away.
I reach out, skimming my fingers along her jaw, my touch light but possessive. “You stormed into my life, wrecking every ounce of control I had, and you think I’m just going to stand by while someone else tries to tear you down?” My voice drops lower. “Not a chance in hell, sweetheart.”
I trail my fingers down the side of her throat, feeling the unsteady thud of her pulse beneath my fingertips. She should push me away. Tell me to fuck off. But she doesn’t. Instead, she sways closer, just enough for me to feel the warmth of her breath against my lips.
It’s all the permission I need.
I crush my mouth to hers, swallowing her startled gasp. There’s nothing soft about my claiming. Nothing tentative about the way I drive my tongue into her mouth. I kiss her like I own her—and I’m just reminding her who she belongs to.
At first, she’s rigid beneath me, but then her hand comes up to fist the front of my hoodie. A broken little sound escapes her throat, and fuck , it drives me insane. It’s the sound of surrender, of frustration, of need, and it snaps whatever control I have left.
I dive deeper into her, wrapping an arm around her waist and walking her backward until we hit the nearest wall.
She gasps, breaking our kiss. Breathing hard, I rest my forehead against hers.
“You’re mine, Dylan,” I murmur, voice rough and possessive.
“Mine to watch. Mine to protect. Just goddamn mine. ”
Lips swollen and breathing haggard, she shakes her head, defiant as ever, but I can feel the way her body betrays her—her sharp intake of breath, the shiver that runs through her when I press my thigh between hers. “I belong to no one,” she argues, but the hitch in her breath betrays her.
I drag my mouth down the side of her neck, letting my teeth scrape her pulse point. “Fight me all you want, Hurricane, but I know the truth. I see it every time you look at me—the lust. The intrigue. You want this as badly as I do.”
Licking into her mouth, I kiss her again, deeper this time. I don’t ease in, don’t take my time. I take what I want, tilting her head back and swallowing her moan like it belongs to me. Because it does .
I slide a hand up her side, feeling the dip of her waist, the way she fits against me like she was fucking made for this—for me.
“Admit it,” I growl against her lips.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scraping my scalp, and I groan, pressing harder against her. I can feel how wrecked she is, how torn between whatever war she’s fighting in her own head and the way her body is begging for more.
“Fine.” I chuckle darkly as my lips skim the angle of her jaw, my fingers sliding into her hair and tugging just hard enough to move her into the position I want. “I don’t need your words when your body is screaming loud and clear just how badly it wants this.”
She huffs out a shaky breath, her chest heaving as it brushes against mine. “You’re impossible.”
I smirk darkly down at her. “And you love it.”
I bite her lip, then soothe it with my tongue, teasing her, testing her. Although she doesn’t push me away, she glares up at me, her breathing uneven and her body tight, like she’s holding herself back. Like she’s still trying to fight me.
“You don’t need someone to fight your battles,” I murmur, dragging my knuckles down her side and relishing the way she shudders beneath my touch. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t want someone to fight for you.”
Her brows pinch together.
“You like the thought of my hands around Kyle’s fucking throat.
That I’m making him suffer for every time he’s gone after you.
Every time he’s tried to tear you down.” I shift impossibly closer.
Every ridge of my body pressed up against her soft edges as I let my lips brush the shell of her ear, my breath ghosting over her skin.
“Pretend you hate it all you want, but you like knowing I’ll hurt him for you. ”
Her hands fist in my hoodie, her breath coming in rapid pants.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” I challenge, pressing my forehead to hers. My hands grab her hips possessively, yanking her into me. I can feel the heat emanating from her core as I drag it along the thick outline of my hardness. “ Lie to me. ”
Those hazel eyes call to me, liquid pools of green and gold boring into me as her nails dig into my shoulders. To hold me back; to hold herself back—does she even know which?
A fierce battle rages in her eyes.
One second.
Two.
Until she lifts onto her toes and kisses me back with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs.
She kisses me like it’s the only truth she has left, and I take it for what it is. Surrender.