Page 30 of Stick It
Wren
He is a good guy, Dylan. Probably just trying to flex the “C” on his jersey, show everyone what kind of Captain he’s going to be.
Me
The kind that has a stick up his ass and lets his team get away with absolute bullshit? Some Captain he is!
Wren
I get that he hasn’t made the best first impression, but I’ve only ever heard people say good things about him.
Me
Good and nice are two different things!
In my experience, Captains don’t stay neutral. I can handle the team on my own. Trust me, this is nothing.
The smell of something savory hits me the moment I step through the door, a warm, tantalizing aroma that makes my stomach growl in protest. I pause, dropping my duffel on the floor and toeing off my Converse. My muscles ache from the drills I ran this evening—alonesince Griffin was noticeably absent.
I hadn’t gotten the same enjoyment from it that I usually do. I was distracted. I thought I kept feeling eyes on me, and my attention kept shifting to the stands, searching, wondering if someone was there watching me. IfKylewas.
It’s the first time I’ve felt that way at BSU, and I hated it.
I hated feeling like I had to be on guard the entire time, mentally preparing myself for an ambush of some sort. I’d ended up calling it quits early and coming home.
The scent of whatever is cooking pulls me forward. When I reach the threshold of the kitchen, I stop short. Ethan stands at the counter, slicing vegetables with precision, his brow furrowed in concentration. Finn is at the stove, stirring a pot that steams in front of him, while Jax moves around the table, setting out plates. It’s a picture of domesticity I wasn’t expecting from a bunch of college hockey players.
Ethan glances up, noticing me lingering in the doorway. “There you are.” He makes it sound like he’s been waiting for me.
I blink. “What’s going on?”
“House dinner,” he says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Well, have fun with that.” Ignoring the enticing smell of whatever they are cooking and the grumble of my stomach, I turn on my heel to head up to my room.
“Nu-uh,” Ethan calls, stopping me in my tracks. “You too.”
I go to tell him it’s all right, he doesn’t have to include me. I’m used to doing things on my own, but he talks over me.
“It’s tradition,” he says, pointing his vegetable knife at me. “Night before Roster Day, we sit down together as a house and eat. Since you’re a part of this house now, that includes you.” He sets the knife down and meets my eyes. “And no, it’s not optional.”
Damn.
I debate arguing with him, but something in his tone tells me I’d be wasting my breath. I’ve seen what happens when Ethan is pushed to his limit. There’s no need to be faced with his wrath two days in a row. Instead, I sigh, stepping fully into the kitchen. “What do you want me to do?”
He grins, and I’m momentarily taken aback by how pretty he looks when he smiles. Ethan is the picture-perfect guy next door with his dark, messy hair and kind gray-blue eyes, but he’s strung as tight as I am—hell, maybe even tighter, which would be saying something. I’m fairly certain this is the first time I’ve seen him drop his guard and just be in the moment.
Gesturing toward Jax, who is setting out glasses beside each plate, he says, “You can help Jax set the table.”
Nodding, I cross the room to the correct cabinet. The glasses, of course, are on the top shelf—because when you’re a head taller than I am, everyday convenience doesn’t require the bottom two shelves. I stretch up onto my toes, my fingers brushing the edge of one of the glasses but not quite getting a grip on it.
Heat suddenly radiates up my back, and I suck in a gasp. “Here,” a low voice murmurs behind me.
I freeze as Jax reaches an arm up and over me, his chest brushing against my shoulder, the heat of him curling along my spine. His other hand finds my waist—firm, steady, far too intentional to be casual.
He grabs the glass with ease, but makes no move to step back. His voice, low and smooth, spills against my neck. “I got it.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe. The proximity, the warmth, the quiet authority in his tone—it all sends my nerves into overdrive. My body reacts before my brain can catch up, my heart thudding in a way I wish it wouldn’t. I can’t want this. Not after everything that happened last year.
