Page 159 of Stick It
“Get Kyle out of here,” Ethan barks at a couple of rookies. “Now.”
Rushing forward, two of them prop Kyle up as they usherhim 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.
She steps forward. Quiet. Calm. But there’s something tight in her face, like her skin is stretched too thin over everything she’s holding in. Lifting her hand, she brushes her thumb through the trail of blood from his lip to his chin. She doesn’t flinch at the smear of red. Doesn’t say anything.
And neither does he.
They justlookat each other, like the chaos around them has quieted into something private. Unspoken. Intimate in a way that has the rest of the world falling away. It’s as though none of the rest of us exist.
An entire conversation passes between them unspoken, until finally Dylan steps back, dropping her gaze. “I’ll go dampen a papertowel.”
She turns and walks toward the showers, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the now hollow space.
When she’s gone, Finn exhales, slow and ragged, before muttering, “I need a fucking drink.”
“Seriously?” I side-eye him. So much for hoping to skip out on the club and take Dylan straight back to the hotel.
He nods, extracting himself from mine and Ethan’s hold as he stretches out his neck. “On second thought, I need an entire fucking bottle.”
Meeting Jax’s and Ethan’s gazes, I begrudgingly murmur, “I guess we’re going clubbing.”
Just. Fucking. Great.
The club pulses around me. Bass-heavy and dripping in sweat, smoke, and sin. Lights flash like lightning across the ceiling, casting people in silhouettes—writhing, grinding, blurring into one another. But my eyes don’t move.
They haven’t since she stepped onto that dance floor in that tiny black dress that hugs her like it was painted on.
Dylan.
She moves like the music is hers. Head tipped back, dark hair swinging, skin glowing in the strobe light. Every now and then, she throws her arms around Jax’s neck, laughing at something he says, dragging him closer as they dance. And I know I should look away. Give her space. Pretend I’m not three seconds from tearing through the crowd like a predator with a scent. But I can’t. Not with her.
She’s too fucking radiant. Too magnetic. Like she was carved into existence just to ruin me. I bring my bottle of beer to my lips, the lukewarm liquid spilling over my tongue, but it does fuck all to quench my thirst because I’m not thirsty for alcohol.
I’m thirsty forher. Insatiably so.
A night after a game, I’d typically be hanging out with the guys from the team, shooting the shit, playing the pretense of normal, but since meeting Dylan, I’ve started to wonder why I fucking bothered.
The truth is, I’ve always worn a mask. Easy charm. Sharp jokes. Camaraderie on demand. It’s easier to pretend to be normal than to let people glimpse your true nature. It made things smoother—kept the coaches happy, the team tight, and no one looking too close. Something that was especially important after I emancipated myself at sixteen, leaving my drug addict mom and abusive dad in the dust. But it wasn’t me. It never was. I don’t give a fuck about parties or post-game banter. I care about hockey. About winning. About staying sharp. Everything else was an act I got too good at playing.
Until Dylan happened. And suddenly, I can’t stomach pretending anymore. Not when I’ve seen what it’s like to want someone with every twisted part of me. She cracked me open, and instead of trying to shove the pieces back in place, I’ve stopped fighting it. I want her. I want this. Her and hockey—that’s it. That’s the whole list.
I truly don’t give a shit about anyone else. But Idogive a shit abouther. And, unfortunately, she gives a shit aboutthem. So I’ve tried to care, too. And if I’m being honest, outside of their dumb-ass response to the jumbotron fiasco, they’ve earned my respect. Well, maybe not Finn—I’m still waiting on that fucker to pull his head out of his ass and prove his worth—but the others. They have her back. They protect her. Look out for her. But most of all, they make her happy. And who the fuck am I to intervene with that?
It also helps that they’re damn good hockey players. I couldn’t have tolerated their presence if they were like fucking Kyle—all talk and unwarranted arrogance. Like me, they have atrue love of the game, a dedication, and drive. Hockey is as much a part of them as it is me—a vital organ necessary for survival. We might not all bleed the same, but on the ice, we speak the same language, and that counts for something.
A nudge at my arm draws my attention for the first time since we arrived at this hellscape of a club, and I turn to glare at Ethan. Ignoring me, he jerks his chin toward a table not far from the bar. “Finn’s fucked.”
