Page 60 of Stick It
Her head bobs thoughtfully. “I agree. The black is a bit heavy for your dress. Silver it is.”
She tosses the silver heels on my bed before stripping out of her clothes and shimmying into the skintight number she picked for herself. “What are you doing?” she demands as she pulls it down over her ass. “Get ready!”
“I am,” I insist.
“Dylan.” She sighs in exasperation. “It’ll be fun, I promise.” Pinning me with pleading eyes, she says, “Do this for me, and I promise we will go somewhere that I know you’re going to love.” I arch a brow at her. She just pins me with a flat look. “Don’t and I’m going to pick the loudest, rowdiest club to go to.”
I groan, my head falling back. “Why am I friends with you?” I mutter, mostly to myself.
She grins, knowing she’s won.
Sighing, I reluctantly drag the horrific ensemble across the bed toward me. “Where is it we’re going anyway? I thought you didn’t like parties.”
“This is no party, my friend. This is beer, good food, and the best entertainment you can get in Blackstone.”
I give her a skeptical look.
“Okay, fine.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re going to The Stanley.”
I freeze. “The hockey bar on campus?”
Wren grins, hands on her hips. “The very one, and before you start with your Debbie Downer bullshit, Wednesday night is Cup Night which means reruns of classic championship games—the greats like Gretzky, Orr, and Yzerman.”
She spots the flicker of interest before I can hide it.
“See!” she exclaims, pointing a painted fingernail in my direction. “Told you, you’d love it.”
“Drinking a beer and watching some of the best players to ever live on TV? Sounds like my kind of night,” I agree. “But do we really have to dress up?”
“Yes!” she states emphatically. “You’ve got legs for days, woman. Show them off a little!”
I grumble but give in, slipping into the outfit. Wren insists on doing my hair, looking absolutely horrified when I suggest simply tying it back, and applying a minimal but undeniably flattering touch of makeup. When she’s done, I barely recognize myself.
“Damn, I’m good,” Wren says, smirking as she surveys her handiwork.
When we’re ready, we head to The Stanley. The bar is buzzing with energy when we walk in. Wren waves to one of the bartenders behind the bar as she leads us to a reserved high-top table right in front of the biggest TV in the room. “Perks of working here,” she says smugly, before disappearing to order our drinks.
I’ve only taken a few sips of my beer when a ruckus at the door grabs my attention. The rest of the team spills into the bar,loud and boisterous as they claim what are clearly their usual seats along the back wall.
I watch them for a moment, my chest tightening. They’re relaxed, at ease with each other in a way I envy. Despite feeling more a part of the Steelhawks than I ever did the Glaciers, this moment serves as a reminder that I’m still on the outside looking in.
Jax catches my eye and lifts his drink with a smile. My stomach flips, but before I can react, Finn follows Jax’s gaze across the room to where I’m sitting. His eyes roam over my legs, lingering just a little too long on the short hemline of my dress before he scowls, wrenching his gaze away as he knocks back his beer.
I roll my eyes and shift my attention to the TV just as the game starts. My breath catches when I realize which one it is—the championship cup game from six years ago. Timberwolves versus Penguins. The night my dad made history with a goal so impossible, it turned him into a legend.
I was at that game. Up in the family box beside my mom, the two of us cheering him on. The bittersweet nostalgia threatens to drown me.Oh, how times have changed.The family I once thought could withstand anything has crumbled in the face of loss and devastation.
Despite the tightness in my chest, I’m hooked to the screen as the game unfolds, watching moments I don’t remember happening and plays I recall like it was only yesterday I was standing in that box watching the Timberwolves go all the way for the first time in twenty-five years.
I’m so invested in what’s happening on screen that I don’t notice Wren has left the table, or that I’m alone, until a familiar presence appears at my shoulder.
I know before I meet those piercing eyes that it’s Ethan. His confident, sure presence is like a beacon. I blink outof the stupor I’ve been in, glancing first at Wren’s empty seat—I vaguely recall her mentioning needing to use the bathroom—before returning my attention to Ethan.
He doesn’t look at me, his attention on the TV as my dad makes a jaw-dropping play.
“He was one hell of a player,” he muses.
Turning back to the screen, I swallow roughly. “Yeah,” I agree softly, my chest tight.
