“Ready?” he asks as I grab my coat and purse.
I nod, feeling oddly nervous as we head out. The ride to the restaurant is comfortable, filled with easy conversation about the upcoming hockey season. Christmas music plays lightly on the radio in the background.
The restaurant he chooses is a local place I’ve passed a hundred times but never been inside. It’s a cozy Italian spot with warm lighting and holiday decorations strung along thewindows. A small Christmas tree stands in the corner, its lights reflecting in the dark windows.
“I love this place,” Dylan says as we’re led to a booth near the back. “Best lasagna in the city, and they don’t make a big deal about...” He gestures vaguely to himself.
I understand immediately. He means they don’t make a big deal about him being a professional athlete. It’s easy to forget sometimes that Dylan lives a life where his face is recognized, where strangers feel entitled to his time and attention.
We settle into the booth, its high sides creating a sense of privacy. I unwrap my scarf, finally warm enough to relax, and we fall back into the easy rhythm we found while decorating the tree.
“So,” Dylan says after we’ve ordered drinks, “on a scale of one to ten, how much better was my tree choice than that scrawny thing you wanted?”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe a six. And only because it fit through the door.”
“A six!” He clutches his chest. “After all my expert guidance? That hurts, Chey.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Fine. Seven point five. Extra points because it smells amazing.”
“I’ll take it.” He grins and leans back against the booth. “Though I still think we should’ve gone with the twelve-footer.”
“And put it where, exactly?On the roof?”
“Details.” He waves dismissively. “Think big or go home, that’s my motto.”
“Is that what you tell the rookies?” I ask, genuinely curious about his role on the team.
“Actually, no,” he replies thoughtfully. “With the rookies, it’s more about slowing down and getting the fundamentals right. The game moves so fast at this level—if you’re always thinking big, you miss the small moments that make the difference.”
I’m struck by the insight, this glimpse of Dylan the professional rather than Dylan the class clown. “That’s ... actually good advice.”
He laughs. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
Our drinks arrive, and the waitress does a slight double-take when she sees Dylan. “Oh! Mr. Williamston. Welcome back.” Her smile widens. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Thanks, Ellie,” Dylan responds warmly. “How’s your son doing? Still playing defense?”
“Yes! And he’s wearing your jersey number now.”
Dylan grins. “Tell him to keep working on his backward skating. That’s where great defensemen are made.”
The interaction lasts only moments, but I find myself mesmerized by this version of Dylan. He knows the waitress’s name. He remembers details about her son. It’s a side of him I’ve glimpsed before but never really paid attention to—the genuine person beneath theplayboy persona.
After we order, the conversation flows naturally from hockey to holiday plans to memories of Christmases past. I find myself telling him about traditions with my grandmother, stories I haven’t shared in years.
“She used to make these Polish cookies,” I explain, relaxing further into the booth. “They took forever to bake, but they were amazing. After she died, I tried to recreate them, but they’re never quite right.”
“Maybe you’re missing the secret ingredient,” Dylan suggests. “Grandmas always have some mysterious component they never write down.”
“Love and butter.” I laugh. “That was her answer whenever I asked.”
“The secret to every good recipe, I think.” He nods.
Our food arrives, steaming and aromatic, and the conversation continues between bites. Dylan tells hockey road trip stories that have me laughing so hard I have to put my fork down. I counter with stories from market research projects gone wrong. There’s an ease between us that I’ve always taken for granted, but tonight it feels like something I should cherish.
As he eats his lasagna, I find myself studying him, really looking at the person across from me. The way his eyes light up when he laughs. The small scar above his left eyebrow from a bike accident. How he thanks Ellie by name every time she refills our water glasses.
I’ve known Dylan Williamston for over a decade, but somehow, I feel like I’m seeing him clearly for the first time. Not as Genna’s annoying older brother, or as the hockey star with women hanging off his arms in social media posts, but as ... Dylan. Just Dylan.
