Page 34 of Stick It
#35 Goalie: Derek Young
11
DYLAN
“D-Girl!”Bear pulls me through the front door of his modest two-story home and straight into his arms. “Congratulations.”
His words are muffled against my shoulder. Still, they bring a smile to my lips.
First-line left wing for the Steelhawks!
I might have been confident but seeing my name on the first-line list was…everything.
Releasing him, I step back, a wide, toothy grin splitting my face. Bear is wearing his usual getup—an old flannel and jeans—his hands squeezing my upper arms as he beams back at me.
“I knew you had it in you.”
This might be my third season playing college hockey but it’s my first on the first line. The coach on my old team never started me above third, even though I was better than every other left wing on the team.
Smirking, I taunt, “It helps that I’ve got an in with the coach.”
Shaking his head, his expression grows more serious, eyes softening as they hold mine. “That was all you, D-Girl. You put in the work, and it showed. You know I wouldn’t have given it toyou if you hadn’t proved yourself—and not just to me.” Yeah, I’m not sure I’ve really proven myself to the team, yet. I mean, my ability on the ice should be enough, but sadly it doesn’t seem to be. I’ve deliberately avoided the entire team since the roster was put up, but I doubt any of them are pleased.
Coach squeezes my shoulder, regaining my attention as he brings his face level with mine. As if sensing where my thoughts have gone, his expression is hard, intent. “More than that, I wouldn’t have given you the spot if I didn’t think you could handle it.”
I swallow roughly, my responding smile soft and genuine, as I move in to give him another quick squeeze around his middle. “I know, Bear. I won’t let you down.”
“You never have, D-Girl. Never.”
I bury my face in his shoulder.Oh, how I’ve missed this.
My stomach chooses that moment to grumble loud enough to be mistaken for a nearby earthquake, and for the first time, I register the warm aroma of roasted chicken and garlic.
Bear chuckles. “Hungry?”
“Starved,” I agree, following him through the living room and into the kitchen. “Something smells good.”
With every step deeper into the familiar old home, swarming with photos whitened with age and knickknacks that tell a lifetime of stories, my shoulders relax. For the first time since I stepped foot on the BSU campus, I’m at peace.
No roommate confrontations.
No teammate glares.
No whispers hidden behind hands as I walk through campus.
A roast chicken is cooling on the counter, two plates, a pitcher of water, and a bowl of mashed potatoes so big I think he’s forgotten it’s just the two of us, are set out on the table.
Bear’s house isn’t fancy, but it’s homey in a way I haven’tfelt in years. Bear’s been like family for as long as I can remember, and looking around the dated kitchen, I get caught up in memories of old. Playing with the bubbles in the sink. Zooming around in the brand-new roller skates he bought me for my eighth birthday. My gaze catches on the deformed figure of a unicorn drawn in red pen on the wall beside the table, and a laugh rips out of me. “I can’t believe you still have that,” I tell him, pointing to the drawing I naughtily drew on the wall instead of on the perfectly acceptable piece of paper I was given alongside some crayons when I was five. “Haven’t you ever repainted in here?”
Bear simply grins, glancing toward the crude drawing as he loads up our plates. “Like I’d ever paint over such a masterpiece. For all I know, it could be worth a fortune one day.The primitive artwork of a five-year-old Dylan Callahan, NHL All-Star champ,”he states as though reading a news headline.
I snort, but my cheeks flush anyway. It’s been a while since anyone had such confidence in me. Since anyone believed my ridiculously far-fetched dreams could ever possibly be a reality. It’s bittersweet.
Plus hearing my dad’s last name alongside mine. The hope that one day I can skate onto the ice beneath the heat of the spotlights and be Dylan Callahan instead of Dylan Carter, my mom’s maiden name, is almost too much to bear. I made the difficult decision to drop Callahan when I started college. I wanted to be recognized formytalent—not the Callahan name. Not mydad’ssuccess. As much as I appreciate everything he has given me in life, including my talent, I want to carve my own path. Want to be seen for who I am and what I’m capable of and not because I’m Patrick Callahan’s daughter.
Still, I wish it could be different. I wish I could honor his name every time I step out onto the ice.
Someday, I promise.
