Page 82 of Stick It
“You’re not used to asking for help.”
She nods.
It shouldn’t cut as deep as it does, but her words slay me. It’s not just hearing that she doesn’t trust me. It’s knowing what she’s been through. What she had to put up with at the hands of that misogynistic piece of shit.
I might not have wanted Dylan on my team at the start of the year, but I would nevereverhave encouraged other team members to go after her. I would never have turned a blind eye?—
Except that’s what I did.
Not for the same fucked-up reasons as Lucas, but I still looked the other way. I might not have known what was going on, but what happened to Dylan—last night and in the weeks since Roster Day—are as much my fault as Reed’s, Fletcher’s, and Monroe’s.
It’s a fight to keep my expression blank, to not let her see how badly her words have affected me. How much I hate myself right now.
I inhale slowly before I speak. “I wish I could say I’m not him?—”
“You’re not,” she cuts me off, her hand lifting from the blanket. It hovers over where mine rests on the edge of the bed before she tentatively lowers it. The heat of her skin engulfs me as she gives my hand a squeeze. “You’re nothing like him. I—I know that, but that doesn’t make it any easier for me to trust.”
I shake my head. “I had no idea they were going after you so hard.” Fury—at myself—vibrates through me. “I’d seen the occasional hard hit, intervened when I caught an illegal move, but I didn’t know…” I blow out a frustrated breath before lifting my gaze. I’d been staring at the point where her skin rests against mine, lingering in the spark that innocent touch ignited, but now I rake my eyes over her face, memorizing every scrape and bruise so I never forget.
Never forget the part I played in this.
My role in her getting hurt.
“You should never have had to deal with someone like Lucas Tremble,” I say fiercely. “You’ve no idea how sorry I am that I’ve let you down. That I failed you. That was never my intention.” Cracks appear in my armor. I know she sees them because she squeezes my hand tighter. I push on. “But I swear to you, Dylan, I’ll be better. I’ll be the captain you need—that you deserve. I’ll be someone you can trust.”
Dylan doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes bounce over my face, taking me in, in much the same way I just did to her. As she does, I can see the war being waged inside her.
She wants to believe me. Wants to trust in what I’m saying, but the instinct to protect herself, to rely on no one but herself, is stronger. It’s written in the tightness of her jaw, the flicker of doubt in her hazel eyes.
And that’s on me.
I’ve done nothing to deserve her trust, nothing to prove I’m any different from Lucas or her old teammates. But I will.
I vow to earn her trust. To be worthy of it.
As much as she lets me see her hesitance, her vulnerability, herwantto believe in me, I show her how determined I am to prove myself to her.
I’ve been telling her since the second she showed up in our locker room that she had to prove herself to me and the team. Well, now it’s my turn.
Turning my hand over, I slide my fingers between hers. This time, I squeezeherhand. A silent promise that she is no longer alone.
“Have they done anything else?” There’s a rawness, a grittiness to my voice as I hold my breath, hoping the answer is no.
Her hand goes stiff against mine, and for a moment I think she’s going to shrug me off, but then she sighs.
“Small things,” she mutters. “Most of it is on the ice, but they pull other shit too. Stealing my tape at practice. More than once, a piece of my gear has gone missing, only to turn up in the laundry bin or some other hiding place.”
“What about outside of practice?” I inquire, sensing there is more.
She huffs a breath. It’s clear she doesn’t want to be talking about this, sharing it with me, but I’m thankful that she’s opening up to me—finally.
“They shoulder-check me when passing by between classes.” She shrugs, acting as though it’s no big deal, but I can see how much all of it has been weighing on her. One little thing might not get to her, but when you add each little insult together, it stacks up to be overwhelming. “Or block my way past altogether if we’re in a corridor or on the stairs.”
I nod absently. Everything they are doing is petty, but annoying. Small enough that unless you were looking for it, you probably wouldn’t notice.
“It’s nothing like how it was at NSU.” She gives another infuriating shrug, like it’s nothing. I don’t give a shit if it’s not as bad as how it was at NSU, it’s still happening under my nose, when it fucking shouldn’t be.
Gritting my teeth, I force myself to calm down.
