60. Dylan
DYLAN
The buzz of the locker room wraps around me like a familiar blanket—laughter, sharp chirps of tape ripping, the dull thud of gear hitting benches, and the low hum of adrenaline. My hands move on autopilot, lacing up my skates, looping them twice before pulling tight.
It’s game night.
And for the first time in a long time, it feels like just that. A game. Not a war. Not survival. Just hockey.
Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed this peace could exist. That I could sit here, surrounded by my teammates—my guys—and feel this strange, sweet normalcy blooming in my chest.
When Finn and I got home that night after our impromptu late-night skate, I was glowing from the inside out. Not just because of the way he kissed me, not just because he made me feel safe and seen, but because he—and the others—had taken that final weight off my shoulders.
They told me everything. About Lucas. About the texts. About the video.
And together, we took it all to the police .
Between that and my statement—and Finn stepping up with his own eyewitness account—it was enough.
Kyle was arrested, along with Fletcher and Monroe.
Actually arrested. This time, Kyle didn’t just walk free with a smirk on his face and a legal technicality in his back pocket. His dad’s lawyers are fighting it, of course. Throwing money at the problem like it’ll bury the truth. Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t.
I’ve learned I can’t control what comes next.
But he’s out of my life now. Expelled. Banned. Barred from stepping foot near the rink, near the team, near me.
And I refuse to give him any more space in my mind.
These past two weeks have been…good. Really good.
The kind of good that feels like sunlight pouring through a window you forgot was there.
The boys— my boys —have been incredibly affectionate.
There’s still that protective edge to them, sure, but it’s softened by the teasing, the casual touches, the laughter.
We’ve found our rhythm.
Between classes, practices, and stolen kisses between locker rows, we make time. For each other. For ourselves. For us.
Even Wren has managed to claw out sufficient space in my life amongst the chaos, with a kind of ferocity I admire. The guys have learned not to argue when she shows up at the door with a raised brow and a demand for girl time . Not unless they want to get scorched.
“I like seeing this smile on you,” Ethan murmurs at my side, nudging me gently with his elbow.
I flash him a grin. “Good, ’cause you’re going to be seeing a lot of it.”
His eyes soften, and he leans closer as his lips drop to mine. I instantly melt, and we both groan, pulling back, knowing we can’t get into that here, in the locker room. Where we’d never hear the end of the catcalls .
“New Infinite Monkey Cage episode dropped,” he says instead, changing the subject. “Thought we could listen to it later.”
My heart does a little flip. It’s become a weekly thing. If we’re not at away games, we listen to that week’s new episode at home. “It’s a date.”
“What’s this I hear about a date?” Jax interjects, shoving his way into our conversation. “You better not be planning one with him, Menace.” He points an accusing finger at me. “You still haven’t played this new game with me. I’ve been building a fortress, and it’s lonely as hell without you.”
“Nu-uh.” I shake my head, wagging a finger between them. “I’m not getting in the middle of this. Sort it out amongst yourselves.”
After many an argument, I’ve learnt to step back and let them argue amongst themselves when it comes to spending time with me. They always figure it out in the end—after some tussling and bloodshed.
I guess, boys will be boys.
As predicted, Ethan and Jax begin to bicker. Shaking my head in amusement, I turn back to my gear—but when I reach for my gloves, something slips out from beneath them and flutters to the bench.
A note.
Unfolding it, I already know who it’s from. Finn’s handwriting is a little messy, all bold strokes and slanted letters. I read it silently, biting back a smile that threatens to split my face wide open.
I love you.
Simple. Understated. Perfect.
Smiling to myself, I clutch the scrap of paper to my chest, breathing in his words. They’ve become a regular thing, not just the odd one here and there. But nearly daily—in my textbooks, my skates, my coat pocket, my locker.
Always places I’ll find them in random, inconspicuous moments.
And then he follows them up by seeking me out and kissing me in a dark corner like he can’t help himself. Like it’s a compulsion.
I lift my gaze to find him, but it’s not Finn I lock eyes with.
It’s Griffin.
He’s across the room, sitting quietly, lacing his skates with methodical precision. But his eyes are on me. Always on me.
Silent. Watchful.
My protector, even when I don’t ask him to be.
I blow him a kiss. His lips twitch, just slightly, and for Griffin, that’s practically a declaration of love.
Before I can say anything else, Coach steps into the room, his voice rising over the hum.
“All right, Steelhawks. Game time.”
The room shifts—tension coiling, laughter dimming, focus sharpening. I tuck the note into my gear bag and slide my gloves on, standing with the others.
It’s time to show them what we’re made of.
And for the first time in weeks, I feel like myself again.
Steel and fire and everything in between.
The noise from the crowd dulls. Blurs. Nothing exists except my hands wrapped around my stick and the whoosh of air in my face as I lead the puck straight for the net.
My breaths are loud in my ear. The net is in sight. My focus is sharp .
I swing my arm back.
The puck hits the back of the net with a satisfying crack.
For a moment, everything is silent. That sweet blip in time when no one has registered the goal, when your body has yet to react, and you feel frozen in time. Weightless.
And then the world explodes.
Noise rushes back in, loud and chaotic. The blast of the horn announcing the end of the game. The screaming of the crowd.
Steelhawks jerseys surge toward me like a blue-and-silver tidal wave, the roar of the crowd swallowed by the crashing adrenaline in my veins.
Ethan is the first to reach me, lifting me clean off the ice and spinning me while he shouts something I can’t even hear over the ringing in my ears.
Finn crashes into us next, followed by Jax and Griffin.
“You did it!” one of them yells loudly in my ear.
“You fucking did it!” Then the whole team is there, piling on, yelling, cheering, laughing.
We won!
I scored the game-winning goal!
I’m at the bottom of the dogpile, my face pressed into Griffin’s chest, and I can’t stop laughing. It bubbles out of me, wild and breathless and euphoric. My lungs burn and my eyes sting and my heart—God, my heart feels so full it might burst.
This is it.
This is what I’ve worked for. Fought for. Bled for.
Acceptance.
Belonging.
Family.
The guys peel back one by one, their faces flushed, beaming, breathless.
“That’s my girl,” Griffin growls in my ear, his hand a brand on the back of my neck.
“You’re a fucking goddess,” Finn yells, his face split in two with a wide, mischievous grin that has me wanting to kiss him.
Nipping at my earlobe, Jax rasps so low only I hear, “I’m gonna show you exactly what scoring that goal did to me later.” His promise sends delicious shivers racing down my spine, and I shift my gaze to Ethan next.
He ducks down so we’re at eye-level. “Hell of a finish, Thorn.” His thumb presses against my lips, tugging the lower one down. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
With heat in my cheeks and love in my heart, I turn, my gaze drawn upward to the rafters, to the jersey hanging high above us.
#19—Callahan .
My father’s name. His number. His jersey.
My chest aches in the best kind of way. The kind that cracks something open inside you and lets the light in. I imagine him up there, watching. Smiling. Proud.
Warmth spreads through my limbs, and for a moment, I sense him there, watching. I can practically feel the pride in his eyes.
Movement from the stands catches my eye and I turn my head, mouth dropping open.
There in the front row, are an entire line of men in ball caps, their hats pulled low and jackets nondescript.
But even without the Timberwolves logos, I’d recognize them anywhere.
A smile curls my lips as I identify Vince, Isaac, and Logan amongst the rest of the Timberwolves players. My dad’s former teammates.
Skating over, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe, I shout, “What are you doing here?”
Vince grins, that familiar crooked smile stretching across his face. “Your boyfriend sent us the schedule. Said we had an open invite.” He shrugs, still grinning. “We had a week off, and none of us could think of a better way to spend it than cheering on the girl who’s always cheered us on.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes before I can stop them. I shake my head, lips parted, but before I can say a single word someone grabs me from behind and suddenly I’m being dragged into the celebratory chaos, my helmet knocked askew as players jostle me from every side.
I’m still grinning as we make it back to the locker room, the air thick with sweat and victory. We change quickly, laughter echoing off the walls. Someone throws a towel at Jax, another guy pretends to interview Finn with a shampoo bottle.
We move the celebrations to The Stanley, where we’re met with rowdy fans as soon as we step into the bar.
We’re instantly swarmed, people clapping us on the back.
People cheer my name as I push past them.
Gone are the looks of contempt and skepticism, the whispers about a girl on the men’s team. Now, there’s only praise. Celebration.
As if sensing the shift in my emotions, Ethan’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder, squeezing the muscle there. I glance back at him over my shoulder and smile.
Wren is behind the bar, expertly pouring beers and shaking cocktails like a queen. When she sees me, she abandons her post without hesitation, pushing through the crowd to throw her arms around me.
“You legend!” she squeals. “You freaking legend!”
I hug her back tightly, breath catching in my throat.
“First round of drinks is on me,” she says, pulling back with a grin. “Well. On the house, but you get the idea.”
We make our way to our usual booth in the back, and unlike all those early visits where I felt like an outsider tagging along, this time, I’m at the heart of it.
The guys surround me. The rest of the team fanning out to claim the tables around ours.
There are backslaps and drinks clink and someone retelling the final play like we didn’t all literally live it.
I laugh along, cheeks aching, heart light.
At some point, Wren squeezes her way in beside me at the booth, shouting in my ear that she’s got a fifteen-minute break. She smells of citrus and vodka, and I lean into her shoulder with a contented sigh.
The door swings open, and the bar hushes to low murmurs as Valehurst College hockey players walk in—our opponents from tonight’s game.
They’re not a bad group. Their captain and Ethan had a friendly interaction on the ice, and Jax explains to me that the Steelhawks had a low-key rivalry with them, a kind of mutual respect laced with a healthy dose of trash talk.
While most of the team heads for the bar to order drinks, the captain and two others I recognize from the ice make their way toward our table.
The team’s captain shakes hands with Ethan, the two of them exchanging tired grins and post-game banter. “Nice finish,” he says, nodding in my direction. “Your girl here has got fire.”
The second he speaks, Wren goes tense as stone beside me.
“You barely saw anything out there,” Ethan replies with a proud grin directed at me.
The two of them shoot the shit, reminiscing about some Athletes Row party they all attended a couple of years ago, but the entire time, I’m aware that Wren has gone so still, I have to squint to see if she’s even breathing. What the hell?
Her gaze bounces between the three players, face pale and brows tipped low over her eyes. While two of them are engaged in conversation with my guys, the one on the far left glances our way. His eyes lock on Wren…and go wide.
He’s tall, with dark hair, and looks like a boulder couldn’t take him out. He stares at Wren like he’s seen a ghost.
As though she can’t stand the intensity of his gaze another moment, she bolts to her feet. “I need to get back to work,” she speaks so fast that the words jumble together, her voice brittle.
Then, careful not to make contact with the players standing in front of our table, she slips past them and disappears into the crowd.
With her gone, I eye the guy she’d been staring at. Who the fuck is he and what the hell did he do to invoke such a reaction from her? My gaze narrows on him, but he’s not paying me any attention, too busy flicking glances toward where Wren disappeared in between talking to the guys.
“Do you know her?” I ask, scooching over so I can keep my voice low, not wanting the entire table to hear our conversation.
He seems taken aback by my question before quickly recovering with a shake of his head. “No. Not really. We met at a party once…”
His words trail off, as if he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, but what he’s said sticks with me.
Wren doesn’t do parties.
I’ve tried all year to get her to keep me company at one of the team’s mandatory parties, and she has made it clear that she would rather watch paint dry.
The conversation moves on while I’m lost in my thoughts, puzzling pieces that don’t fit together. When I zone back in, Jax is cracking a joke with the newcomers. I shake off the strange interaction, joining in on the conversation.
I don’t see Wren again for the rest of the night.