41. Dylan #2
“Oh, honey.” She pulls me into a hug, and the tears I’d held back since the locker room come rushing forward. For the first time tonight, I don’t try to stop them. I just let myself fall apart in the safety of Wren’s arms.
The credits roll across the screen, the soft hum of the movie’s soundtrack filling Wren’s small apartment.
Empty bowls of ice cream sit on the coffee table, remnants of melted chocolate and sprinkles pooling at the bottom.
A warmth has settled over me—not just from the hot chocolate, but from the safety of this space, of Wren.
The weight in my chest feels a little lighter, the pain of the night dulled by her rants about the guys and the way she all but knighted Griffin for actually using his brain.
I shift slightly, curling deeper into the couch, my gaze flicking her way.
“There’s one thing I never told you.” I’ve been debating over this all night.
Since she vowed that the next time any of them came into The Stanley she was going to serve them spittle beer.
I mean, if that’s not true friendship, what is?
She turns to me, instantly alert, the kind of friend who never half listens. “What?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, then exhale. If I’m doing this, I may as well rip off the Band-Aid. One I’ve been wearing since I started college. “Patrick Callahan is my dad.”
For a moment, she just stares at me, her lips parted in shock. Then her eyes widen, and it’s a flurry of blankets as she untangles herself and shoots upright, letting out a sound that can only be described as a screech. I swear dogs respond to the otherworldly noise. “WHAT?! ”
Her hands clap as she practically vibrates with excitement.
“You do mean the Patrick Callahan, right? As in, Hall of Famer, three-time Stanley Cup winner, and one of the best centers to ever play the game.” Her face takes on a crushing expression.
“Please God, tell me you’re not talking about some random, middle-management, beer-belly, scratches-his-balls-in-public Patrick Callahan that nobody has ever heard of? ”
The laugh that tears out of me is free and genuine. One only Wren is capable of eliciting after such an emotionally exhausting day.
“I’m talking about the Hall of Famer, Stanley Cup winner.”
Another ear-splitting screech has me covering my head for fear of a burst eardrum.
“Oh. My. God.” She clutches my wrist, shaking me slightly as her excitement overwhelms her. “Dylan. Dylan! You are actually hockey royalty. I feel like I should bow.”
I groan. “Please don’t.”
She ignores me, still gaping. “This explains so much. Your instincts, your skating, your absolute murder-for-blood style of play. Holy shit, it’s genetic.”
I let out a breathless laugh. “I mean, maybe.”
She leans closer, excitement still gleaming in her eyes. “Do the guys know?”
I hesitate. “Ethan figured it out, and I think Griffin knows.”
Wren smirks. “Of course he does. He probably has the phases of your cycle memorized.”
I scrunch my nose. “God, I hope not.”
“What about Finn and Jax?”
I shake my head. “I debated telling Jax a couple of times, but…now I’m glad I didn’t.”
Something shifts in her expression, understanding settling in. Finding a modicum of self-restraint, she nibbles on her bottom lip, staring at me with wide eyes full of questions .
I chuckle, gesturing toward her. “You can ask.”
She flashes me a grin. “So why change your name to Carter? When?”
I nod, running my fingers along the seam of my sweatshirt.
I showered and changed as soon as I managed to stem the flow of tears that just wouldn’t stop after I arrived.
“When I started college. I wanted to carve out my own career, my own legacy. If I kept my dad’s name, I’d never just be Dylan.
I’d always be Patrick Callahan’s daughter. ”
Wren’s face softens, something that looks like understanding flashing in her eyes. “That make sense, and honestly? That’s badass.”
A warmth blooms in my chest. “Thanks.”
She’s quiet for a moment before she speaks again, “Since we’re sharing truths…” She glances my way, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “I don’t think I ever told you my last name.”
I arch a brow, confused as to where she’s going with this.
“It’s Winslow.” I just blink at her, clearly not getting whatever it is she’s trying to say. “As in the Atlantic City Serpents Winslow.”
My mouth falls open. My jaw hits the ground.
I splutter, at a loss for words. “Are you telling me your family own an NHL team?”
Her face scrunches before she nods.
“Holy shit…and you said I was hockey royalty?”
She scoffs. “You are. I’m like…management royalty. Ownership royalty?” She tilts her head in consideration before shrugging. “Whatever. My family could own anything, it just so happens to be a hockey team. Your dad—you—actually play the sport. Ergo, you are proper hockey royalty.”
I shake my head, struggling to fathom why that is what we’re hung up on right now .
“Is that why you’re so into hockey? Because of your parents?”
She shrugs. “I mean, I guess so. I grew up surrounded by it. My brother is actually a rookie on the team this year, but that’s not why I love it.”
I nod, understanding. We’re the same. We grew up surrounded by the sport, but that constant availability doesn’t foster love.
You could grow up in our shoes and end up hating the sport.
Loving it is something more. It’s ingrained in you.
It’s in your blood. In your very soul. It’s a part of you that you can’t deny.
“Well, holy crap. I was not expecting that,” I say, collapsing back on the sofa, stunned.
“I don’t tell many people,” she admits, not looking at me. “People get funny when they find out who I am—who my family is.”
“Yeah.” Reaching over, I squeeze her hand. “Your secret is safe with me.”
She gives me a very Wren grin. “Ditto, babe.”
I chuckle, the two of us falling into silence.
“Is it hard? Being here, at BSU—his alma mater?” she eventually asks, voice soft.
I think about it, letting the question settle in my bones.
Then, finally, I shake my head. “No. It feels right. Like I was always meant to end up here. Going to NSU was part of me creating my own path, but…now, I kinda wish I’d been here from the start.
He would’ve loved to see me in Steelhawks colors, wearing his old jersey.
She squeezes my hand, her fingers warm and reassuring. “I bet he’s looking down on you. Pumping a fist every time you show up one of the guys on the ice.”
A laugh breaks free, but there’s a lump in my throat, the sting of grief not as sharp as it used to be but still there, still woven into me. “Yeah. Maybe.”
She squeezes my hand again. “Definitely.”
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe it.