Page 36 of Stick It
A laugh escapes me, shaky but real. “Don’t start comparing me to him, Bear. I’m not even close.”
“Not yet, but you’ve got the same fire, D-Girl. You just don’t let up. You’re stubborn as hell, just like he was. And if you keep at it, no one’s gonna touch you.”
His words land somewhere deep inside me, echoing in places I usually try to ignore. I feel it now, though, the connection. If Dad could overcome those odds, if he could carry it all and still become one of the greats, then maybe I can too.
No matter what Kyle and the team throw at me.
The second I step onto Athletes Row, I groan. It’s barely past nine, but the street looks like a scene from a music video: girls in barely-there dresses totter on sky-high heels, boys whoop and shout with red Solo cups in hand, and every lawn pulses with the heavy bass of a different song. Someone’s dragged speakers onto their porch, and the thrum of music vibrates in my chest.
I’m so not in the mood for this.
I’d far rather have spent the entire night at Bear’s and avoided this stupid party, and the rest of the team, but that would have raised questions I don’t have suitable answers for. And the last thing I want anyone looking into is my relationship with the coach. It’s paramount that everyone believes we have nothing beyond a coach-player relationship, just like everyone else on the team.
With leaden feet, I make my way up the street, skirting around a group of drunk girls yelling at each other before dodging a guy in a football jersey sprinting with a keg hoisted over his shoulder. In jeans, Converse, and an old, well-worn, Timberwolves T-shirt, I’m not even dressed for a party.
By the time I reach our house, it’s clear that we are the epicenter of the chaos.That’s just perfect. I should have expected no less from the Steelhawks hockey team.
Every light blazes downstairs, the windows rattling with the music. The yard is packed, and there’s a bottleneck at the front door.
Sighing, I trudge up the drive. I wish Wren were here. At least then I’d have one ally. One person I could talk to. We could huddle in a corner of the house and ignore everyone else. I tried inviting her. Alas, while hockey is her thing, parties apparently are not.
I finally squeeze my way through the front door. Inside, it’sworse. Bodies move together in a writhing mass in what used to be our living room. The sofas have been shoved against the walls to allow enough space for a makeshift dance floor. People are pressed into every corner, making out, shouting over the music, and spilling drinks all around themselves.
I amsonot having any part in cleaning up this mess.
I scan the room, spotting Ethan leaning against the back wall like a king surveying his court. Jax is beside him, one shoulder pressed against the wall, his focus intent on Ethan—asif he can block out the rest of the room by sheer willpower alone.
Damn, maybe I should ask him if that’s possible. It would be a convenient skill to have right now.
As if sensing my eyes on him, he glances over. Our gazes collide, and he stops mid-sentence. Ethan gives him a quizzical look before following his line of sight until I’m caught in both of their stares. Gray-blue and deep brown pools act like a vortex, glueing my feet to the floor despite people shuffling past me.
It’s the first time I’ve set eyes on either of them since the lineup was announced, and as my gaze roams over their faces, I try to get a read on their expressions—are they pissed? Resentful? Out for revenge?
After a moment, Jax’s lips curve into the faintest smile, and he lifts his Solo cup in a silent toast. The gesture catches me off guard, and I know I’m wide-eyed as I gape at him. I expected indifference at best, hostility at worst. Not…whatever sort ofgo yougesture that was.
Confused, my focus shifts to Ethan. He’s as stoic as always, giving nothing away regarding how he feels. He’s most likely in damage control mode, figuring out how he can stop the team from imploding and ensure everyone focuses on what’s important—the game. I don’t envy him for having that job, but I’m not about to shrink just to make room for their egos—or make it easier for him to keep the peace.
Dismissing them both, I turn toward the kitchen, but something flashes in my peripheral vision—red hair. I freeze and scan the crowd, finally spotting Finn in the middle of the dance floor. He’s holding a plastic cup over his head, his other hand wrapped around the waist of a girl pressed against him, their hips gyrating in time to the beat. He’s wearing one of those tank tops with the massive arm holes that show more of his toned chest and abs than it hides, the white contrasting beautifullywith the black ink visible along his left arm. I trail the dark swirls until they disappear around the petite blonde pressed up against him.
Her face is turned away from me, so I can’t see who she is, but then she shifts, tilting her face up to his, and I get a clear view. The puck bunny. The one who came up to me in the cafeteria and started the wholeBench Bunnywhispers.
My gut twists, and the spot where Finn’s lips met mine in a quick kiss last nightburns. A reminder of how foolish I’d be to assume that a kiss meant anything. Finn can’t be trusted.Noneof them can.
Jaw tight, I shove my way into the kitchen and grab a soda from the counter. It hisses as I pop it open, downing a third of it. It does nothing to calm the heat I can feel in my cheeks. The rage burning in my chest. The embarrassment eating at my core.
Shaking my head, I turn so my back is against the counter and look out over the busy kitchen without taking any of it in. The noise, the lights, the stifling heat of too many bodies packed into one place—it’s too much. Suffocating.
I need air.
Pushing off the counter, I stride toward the back door and out into the night. A fire burns in the center of the backyard, a circle of chairs surrounding it. Most of them are occupied by my teammates. Girls are draped over some of them while others sit and talk, their laughter cutting through the night.
I spot an empty seat on the far side of the fire, but I already know my presence won’t be welcome. Nor am I in the mood to deal with shit about my position on the roster. Instead, I move toward an empty bench to the side of the back door, half hidden in shadows, and sit down, cradling my drink.
The fresh air helps to clear my head, to calm the irritation that had been prickling at my skin. Irritation at seeing Finn with another girl, that I have no right feeling. It was one kiss. A one-second touching of lips. That doesn’t make Finn mine or me his. Nor should I want it to. And yet, the irrational jealousy I felt at seeing him pressed up against another girl…
“Get a grip of yourself, Dyl,” I mutter frustratingly, shaking my head in disappointment.
Instead of getting lost in my head, I scan the backyard. Couples are tangled in shadowed corners, and there’s a knot of people by the back door. The rest are drawn to the bonfire like moths to a flame.
