Page 12 of Stick It
Ethan’s gaze sweeps the group, sharp and assessing. “Then focus onyourgame. Not hers. Not anyone else’s.”
He nods toward the freshman. “Fletcher, you’ve got speed, but your corners are sloppy. Work on that. And, Matthews—” Ah, that’s the sophomore’s name. “—Coach already told you you’re not reading the plays fast enough. Fix it.”
Matthews nods, all of the guys’ postures shifting under theircaptain’s scrutiny. Even Kyle doesn’t argue, though I can see his jaw clench as he sips his beer.
“Do your job,” Ethan finishes, leaning back again. “The rest will take care of itself.”
The table goes quiet for a beat before Finn breaks it, leaning over to clap Fletcher on the back. “Guess you’re running suicides all next week, huh?”
The tension snaps, and the laughter returns, the conversation moving on. The guys start talking about their summers. I only contribute to the conversation when someone asks a direct question. Otherwise, I nurse my beer and observe.
The table slowly empties as the night wears on, guys peeling off one by one. By the time I decide to call it, half the team’s either at a dartboard or chasing hookups. I push back my chair and drain the last of my drink.
“You heading out?” Ethan asks, disengaging from his conversation with a junior player to look my way as I stand from the table.
“Yeah.”
“All right. It was good to have you out with us.” He knows well enough by now that this isn’t my scene. Crowds. People. I’d far rather be set up in the living room with a beer and my headset on while I playCall of Duty. I give him a curt nod. “See you at home.” He returns to his conversation as I stride away from the table, the crowd parting to let me through.
I catch sight of Finn sucking face with some girl at the bar. His mischievous smirk gets him into any girl’s panties faster than anyone I know, and I shake my head as I move past him.
“You leaving?” Griffin steps into my path, blocking my exit. He’s got a girl glued to his side, sucking on his neck like she’s a vampire and he’s her next meal.
“Yeah,” I grunt.
“Missing out, bro. I’m sure Misty here would be down to share.”
The girl detaches her lips from his neck long enough to correct, “Missy.” Her gaze flicks my way, running up and down my broad six-foot-four frame before smirking lasciviously. “The more, the merrier.”
She reaches out to touch my arm, and I shift so her hand falls short. Why the fuck do girls think they have the right to touch you? If I did that to her, I’d be hauled into the police station under sexual assault charges.
“Maybe some other time.” Or never.
Unfazed, Griff winks at me as he hauls her off, the two of them disappearing into the crowd and granting me free passage to the exit.
I’m already socialed out for the entire year.
Walking into the house, I drop my keys onto the small table by the door before stopping in my tracks at the faint glow from the TV. Stepping into the doorway, I pause. Dylan is sitting on the couch, pizza box open on the coffee table, her legs tucked under her. She’s focused, eyes locked on the screen where game footage plays—ourgame footage from last season. I remember this game against Blackharbor. The forward line is currently on the ice, Ethan leading a rush.
She’s not just watching it, though—she’s studying it. Leaning forward slightly like she’s memorizing every play, every movement with that same look of focused concentration she wears on the ice.
With her distracted, I allow myself a moment to take her in. She’s casually dressed in sweats and an oversized T-shirt, her feet bare and hair scraped back into a messy bun on the top ofher head. There’s not a stitch of makeup on her face. In fact, I haven’t seen her wear makeup once. It’s not what I’m used to when it comes to girls. Most of the girls that hang around the team are dolled up to the nines in skirts short enough to intentionally show off whatever color G-string they are wearing and a face caked with enough makeup that you wouldn’t have a hope of recognizing them without it. Even most female athletes put on makeup when they aren’t at practice or in the sports center. But not Dylan.
She must feel my eyes on her as her head snaps toward me. For a second, she stares, like a deer caught in the headlights. Then she moves. Quickly and efficiently, she grabs the pizza box and the remote, planning to run for it.
“You don’t have to go.” The words are out before I’ve fully thought them through.
She pauses, frowning slightly.
I shrug, stepping farther into the room. “It’s your house too. You don’t have to hide.”
Still frozen in place, pizza box in hand and remote pointed at the TV, her gaze flicks over my shoulder.
“It’s just me,” I tell her. “The others are still out. Probably will be for a while longer.” I don’t know why I saythat. I have no idea when the others will be home. For all I know, Finn has picked up some girl and is bringing her back here as we speak. Ethan will stay at the bar until the last of the team heads out, and who the fuck knows with Kyle.
She hesitates for a second longer, and I expect her to grab the last of her belongings and leave. But then she exhales, slowly places the pizza box back on the table, as if she’s liable to change her mind at any second, and sinks down onto the sofa.
Cautiously, as though approaching a wild animal, I move to sit on the chair across from her. An awkward silence settlesbetween us. Lifting my chin toward the screen, I ask her, “This what you do every night? Watch game footage?”
