Page 7 of Stick It
“Who the fuck are you?”
The curt words are out of my mouth before I can reel them back in. But seriously? Today, of all days, some woman has to sneak into our locker room. Which one of my idiotic teammates fucked the crazy chick?
A low whistle comes from behind me, Finn craning to see past my broad shoulders. “Dylan?” He smacks one of the others. “I told you she was real! Wait…what are you doing here?”
Dylan?
My eyes narrow, and suddenly, I’m seeing her differently. As she unhurriedly gets to her feet, facing off against us, I rake my gaze over her again. Slower this time, noticing the details I missed before. There’s nothing delicate about the way she stands, feet planted and shoulders squared. Her posture is tense, chin lifted as though ready for a fight. Those hazel eyes? They’re not soft or doe-like; they’re sharp, calculating. Astute. Like she’s already assessed every single one of us and decided how great of a threat we are. Her lips are still pressed into that grim line, but it’s not nervousness—it’s determination.
Then there’s what she’s wearing: practice gear.
No, Dylan has not found herself in the boys’ locker room by accident. Nor is she some puck bunny or crazed groupie hoping for a good time or an autograph.
She’s got on black hockey pants with the familiar padding, a Bermuda blue jersey with the Steelhawks logo stretched over her chest. Her elbows and knees are already strapped with protective gear, and her gloves sit on the bench beside her. She’s not fully suited up—no helmet or skates yet—but she’s ready. Like shebelongshere.
Except she doesn’t.
“If you’re looking for the girls’ hockey team, they practice at the rink in town,” Finn continues, likely seeing what I am but interpreting it differently.
“She’s not here for the girls’ team,” I state succinctly.
Those sharp eyes snap to mine, her face giving nothing away. Silence stretches between us. The guys have stepped up beside me, forming a semicircle in front of her. The only sound in the room is the swish of the door as other team members arrive, slipping inside and standing quietly off to the side as they take in the strange confrontation.
“Are you?”
Coach had told us we were getting a junior transfer, but the only information he’d volunteered was a name.
A name that perfectly suits the five-foot-eight storm standing before me, hazel eyes burning with fire and determination like she’s spent her entire life proving herself to people like us. There’s a wariness there too, a guarded edge, but it only sharpens the challenge pouring off her in waves. This isn’t just some transfer. This is a player who’s here to take what she wants, and it’s pretty damn clear she doesn’t care if she has to fight us to get it.
“No.”
That one word is delivered with crisp curtness, her tone unforgiving. Unrepentant of the mayhem her presence here is about to unleash.
I can feel the guys bristle around me, the tension only escalating when those plump lips hitch up in a mocking smirk.
“I’m your new left winger.”
Fuck. Me.
This can’t be happening.
Of all the years, Coach chooses the one whereI’mthe captain to bring a girl onto the team.
Chaos erupts at her declaration, the locker room falling intopandemonium. Everyone talks over one another, shouting “Hell no” and “You can’t be serious” until the noise becomes a pounding in my skull. The entire time, the girl—Dylan—stands there, watching it all with shrewd vigilance. She knows exactly what sort of bomb she’s just set off, and yet there’s not an ounce of remorse in her expression.
Her eyes make their way back to mine, our gazes latching on. I don’t have a clue what she’s thinking, her facial expressions giving nothing away. Yet, the longer I stare into those liquid green-and-gold pools, the more distant the uproar around us becomes. It’s almost as though I’m being pulled away—away from my team and from what matters.
Requiring more force than I’ll ever admit, I wrench my gaze away and bellow, “Enough!”
The room falls deathly quiet, everyone turning to see what their captain has to say. Scanning the faces of men I’ve played alongside for the last number of years, a lump forms in my throat at the confidence shining back at me. These men trust me to fix this. To make it right.
The problem is, I don’t have the first fucking clue how to do that.
When I woke up this morning, prepared to deliver my first speech as captain, I did not expect to facethis.
“Cap,” Matthews, a second-line sophomore, starts. “Tell us this isn’t true. We can’t seriously be expected to play with a girl on the team. We’ll be a laughingstock!”
Thankfully, Coach chooses that moment to make an appearance, saving me from having to tell the team I’m as clueless as they are.
