47. Griffin
GRIFFIN
The locker room buzzes from our win—half-dressed bodies moving between the showers and benches, towels snapping, someone blasting a too loud victory playlist on a Bluetooth speaker. The air reeks of sweat, soap, and adrenaline. Everyone’s riding the high.
I sit at my stall, towel around my neck, laces undone, half listening as the guys go back and forth, debating on which club we should hit up to celebrate.
I’m already calculating how much bullshit I’ll have to suffer through before I can get Dylan back to the hotel. The only way I want to celebrate is by stripping her bare before making good on my pre-game promise.
I glance up just as she steps out of the shower room, dressed in tiny black boy short panties that cling to her curves like sin and a fitted tank that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Every head turns. She doesn’t notice—or maybe she just doesn’t care—but I do.
I growl at those closest to me, promising a painful, torturous end as I glare down everyone else until they quickly avert their eyes.
She’s rifling through her bag for her jeans when something slips out. A small, folded piece of paper flutters to the ground, skidding across the slick floor until it stops right at the toe of Kyle’s sneaker.
I tense. “Dylan—” I start, but Kyle’s already bending.
She whirls toward him, eyes widening in horror. “Don’t!” Her voice slides through the locker room like a puck to the glass. It has everyone stopping what they were doing, chatter cutting off abruptly, as everyone turns to soak up the drama.
The only person who appears wholly unperturbed is Kyle.
With casual ease and absolutely zero regard for personal privacy, he unfolds the note.
The entire locker room seems to be holding its breath as he scans it, expression morphing into something ugly and smug all at once.
Then he chuckles, one of those slow, venomous sounds that spreads like oil on water.
“Oh, that’s rich,” he says, loud enough to cut through the last of the locker room noise.
“Kyle, give that back!”
Dylan’s demand goes unheard as Kyle snaps his gaze to Finn’s, lips curling in a cruel sneer. “Really, Finn? This is how low you’ve fallen?”
Confusion ripples through me as I glance at Finn. He stands frozen at his locker, shirt half on, staring at Kyle like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion.
What the hell is going on?
And then, just to twist the knife deeper, Kyle flicks his gaze back to the piece of paper and starts to read it aloud.
“I used to think I knew what I wanted. Then you came along and changed the rules. Watching you out there tonight—sharp, fast, fearless—I couldn’t look away. I’m not scared of what this is anymore. I want it. I want you. All of you.”
Laughter ripples through the locker room, some guys confused, others clearly entertained. I glance at Dylan, and she’s rooted in place. Face pale. Eyes locked on Finn .
Realization dawns—Finn’s been leaving the little Steelhawk love notes. Love notes she never told me about. Given Dylan’s reaction when the paper first fell out of her bag, this wasn’t the first note that had been left.
And she just kept them. Kept them.
Based on her current shocked expression, she had no idea they were from Finn. Anger spikes through me like a wire pulled too tight. What if they hadn’t been from him? What if it had been some creep, some obsessed stalker leaving her notes? What if it were someone like me ?
I don’t like not knowing something about her.
Especially not something like this. It doesn’t matter that it was Finn.
It could have been someone else. Someone dangerous.
Someone who presented a threat to my hurricane.
Someone interacting with her beneath my nose and I never fucking knew.
My jaw tics, teeth grinding. It’s my job to know everything about her. To protect her. Protect what’s mine .
Finn shifts on his feet, drawing my attention. He’s staring at Kyle like he might commit murder with his bare hands, while Kyle waves the note in front of him like it’s a victory flag.
“Jesus, Finn. Didn’t realize you’d turned into such a little bitch.” Kyle’s voice is thick with venom. “I mean, I knew she had you whipped, but this? You write her cute little love notes now?”
Finn still doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. But his jaw clenches so tight I hear it grind from across the room.
Kyle turns to the rest of the team. “Who’d have thought Finn O’Rourke, the great Casanova, would fall so far off his pedestal?
” There are some laughs, but for the most part, the team looks between Kyle, Finn, and Ethan, unsure how to react.
“The question is,” Kyle continues, menace bleeding into his tone as he fixes Finn in his sights once more.
“How long can sappy Finn last? We all know you’re a flirt.
A hit-it-and-quit-it kind of guy. One girl’s never going to be enough for you.
” His gaze flicks to Dylan, expression mocking.
“You really think you’re the exception?” The disgust underlying his words as he trails his eyes over her, making sure she’s aware that he’s less than impressed by what he sees, has me seeing red.
Despite her blank expression and rigid stance, Dylan flinches. Her gaze slides in Finn’s direction, and I catch sight of the pain Kyle just inflicted. The moment of doubt. I move to intervene, because fuck no will someone hurt my girl. Not when I’m standing right fucking here.
Except Finn beats me to it.
He steps up to Kyle, chest to chest. “Don’t fucking talk to her,” he snarls, face thunderous in the way it is when he’s facing off against an opponent on the ice.
Kyle smirks, egging him on. “What? Gonna punch me, lover boy? Gonna hit your best friend since childhood?”
Finn doesn’t launch at him— yet . But he’s vibrating with the urge to. “You, Kyle Reed, are no friend of mine.”
What looks suspiciously like hurt flashes across Kyle’s eyes before he buries it beneath his rising fury.
“Then don’t come crying to me when she chooses one of these other idiots and leaves you lying in the dirt.
” He scoffs. “She’s got you so tightly wound around her finger that you’re writing her fucking love letters.
I mean, do you even remember who you used to be? ”
“Do you?” Finn tosses back accusingly. “You lose out on your position to a better player and all of a sudden you’re a spiteful dickhead? Instead of working to be better, you try to sabotage that player instead? Who even are you, Kyle, because you sure as shit aren’t the friend I grew up with.”
Sneering, Kyle snaps, “She’s a manipulative, lying, power-hungry whore, and you’re just too fucking blind to see it.”
A growl erupts from my chest.
Finn’s already moving before his last word lands.
He explodes— a full-body launch. He tackles Kyle backward into the row of lockers.
A sharp crack of metal rings out, followed by the unmistakable thud of fist to flesh.
The room erupts in chaos, jeers, and whistles, egging the two of them on as the team forms a circle around the brawling pair.
I shove closer, satisfaction thrumming through my veins at the sight of blood dripping from a cut to Kyle’s eyebrow. Folding my arms over my chest, I’m happy to watch as Finn gives Kyle the beating he’s been deserving of for quite some time.
Kyle doesn’t take it lying down, getting his own punches in too, but they only seem to fuel Finn’s fury.
Catching my attention, Ethan gestures for us to intervene.
Face scrunching, I shake my head. Fuck no.
This is the best entertainment I’ve had in ages.
Karma has finally come for Kyle, and I want to bask in every bloodthirsty moment of it.
Tilting his head toward Dylan, I follow his gaze, and my lips purse.
Dylan isn’t averse to violence. Fights break out all the time on the ice.
Hell, frequently, Jax or Finn will be caught up in one.
But something about seeing Finn embroiled in one off-ice has her worried.
Her wide gaze darts back and forth between the fighting pair, her lower lip tugged between her teeth in a sign of stress.
Shit .
Meeting Ethan’s gaze again, I reluctantly nod, and the two of us move in to pull Finn off Kyle, but not before he gets a final hit in—right to Kyle’s jaw. A loud, satisfying crack renders the air as his head whips to the side, blood spraying from his mouth.
“You’re a fucking piece of shit,” Finn spits, fighting against me and Ethan. Jesus. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this worked up. Not even when Sions’ captain threw a dirty check last year during the championship semi-finals.
“Get Kyle out of here,” Ethan barks at a couple of rookies. “Now.”
Rushing forward, two of them prop Kyle up as they usher him out of the room. The door slams behind them, the echo of it clanging through the silence like an aftershock.
No one moves.
No one speaks.
Then Ethan’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. “Get dressed and get the hell out.”
It’s not a shout. It’s worse—it’s cold, sharp, final. Ethan is exerting his authority in a way he never has before.
Just like that, the room jolts to life. Guys scramble, shoving their gear into bags, throwing on clothes.
No one’s talking anymore. No jokes. No plans.
Just eyes averted and movements stiff, like they don’t want to catch whatever just happened.
Within minutes, the room clears out, the space emptying until it’s just me, Ethan, Finn, Jax… and Dylan.
Finn’s still in my grip, arms trembling with residual rage, a fresh split blooming on his lower lip. Ethan stands firm on his other side, Jax hovering behind Dylan, who hasn’t taken her eyes off Finn since we pulled him off Kyle. I’m not sure she’s even aware that the room has emptied out.