Page 137 of Stick It
“And we can do something tomorrow—grab dinner or whatever.”
His fingers flex. “Not enough.”
I sigh, giving him an exasperated look. “Breakfast then. You can pick me up first thing.”
“Fine.” It’s clear he’s still not happy, but he relents.
Grinning at him, I keep one hand on the door handle as I lean over to press a brief kiss to his lips. “Good night, Griffin.”
I hurriedly scurry out of the car before he can tempt me to stay—or trap me. He growls at my hasty retreat, eliciting a laugh from me.
Grabbing my bag from his back seat, a thought strikes me before I close the door. “First thing does not mean you show up here at 6 a.m.,” I tell him sternly. “Nine, at the earliest.”
“Six. Be ready, or I’ll break down Wren’s door to get to you.”
He’s gone, the door closing as he pulls away from the curb, before I can argue.Dumb, territorial males.
I’m still shaking my head at his ridiculousness when I knockon Wren’s door. However, the moment she opens it, the weight of everything from today cracks the dam. My face crumples.
“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 meanthePatrick 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.”
