The realization is both simple and startling.
“What?” he asks, catching me watching him. “Do I have sauce on my face?”
I shake my head quickly. “No, I just...” I pause, not sure how to explain what I’m thinking. “I just wanted to thank you again. For today. For the ridiculous elf costume and helping us set up the tree and ... just being there. For us. For me. After everything with Garrett, I honestly didn’t expect to be laughing this much so soon.”
Dylan’s expression softens. “That’s what friends are for, Chey.”
“Still. It means a lot.”
Our eyes meet across the table, and something shifts yet again in the air between us. The restaurant seems to fade away. Suddenly, all I can hear is my own heartbeat. Dylan’s gaze holds mine in a way that makes my breath catch.
The moment stretches, as if time stands still. And I find myself wondering what would happen if I reached across the table and took his hand.
“Excuse me,” a voice breaks in. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but are you Dylan Williamston?”
A young man stands beside our table, phone already in hand. He looks about college age, his expression apologetic but excited.
Just like that, I watch Dylan transform. His posture straightens, and his smile widens into that camera-ready grin I’ve seen in a hundred social media posts. “That’s me,” he confirms, voice shifting subtly to a more confident, public tone.
“I’m a huge fan,” the young man gushes. “My friends are never going to believe this. Could I possibly get a photo?”
“Of course,” Dylan agrees easily, already sliding out of the booth. “No problem at all.”
I watch as he stands next to the fan, arm slung casually around his shoulders, while the young man takes a selfie. Dylan asks him about his favorite team moments, poses for a second photo, and even signs a napkin. He’s charming, gracious, and completely in his element.
The interaction lasts only a few minutes before the fan thanks him profusely and returns to his table across the restaurant. When Dylan slides back into our booth, he seems slightly embarrassed.
“Sorry about that,” he says, picking up his fork again.
“Don’t be,” I assure him. “That’s your life, right? Does it happen a lot?”
He shrugs. “Depends where I am. Places I go regularly, like here, it’s not too bad. People are pretty respectful. The bars after games can get intense, though.”
I nod, trying to imagine what that must be like—to be recognized, to have strangers feel entitled to your time and attention. It explains some things about him, I realize. The careful public image. The way he can turn on the charm like flipping a switch.
“Is it weird?” I ask. “Having people know who you are when you don’t know them?”
“Sometimes. But mostly, I’m just grateful, you know? I get to play the game I love for a living. If taking a few photos is the downside, that’s a pretty good deal.”
His perspective surprises me—it’s so mature and grounded for someone with his reputation. There are layers to Dylan Williamston that I’ve never bothered to explore, I realize. Depths I’ve assumed weren’t there.
As we finish our meal and Dylan insists on paying despite my protests, I find myself wondering what other assumptions I’ve made about him that might be wrong. And why, after all these years of knowing him, I’m onlynowstarting to really see him.
Maybe it’s because I’m finally looking.
Chapter Nine
Dylan
Fifteen seconds left on the clock.
The home game is tied at 3-3.
My lungs burn with each ragged breath. Sweat stings my eyes as I scan the gleaming white expanse of ice for an opening.
These are the moments I live for. The moments when it’s just me, the puck, and the net. When all my training and early mornings and sacrifices come down to one single play. The home crowd noise—eighteen thousand voices melding into one primal roar—fades to a distant hum as I catch Blaze’s eye across the rink. He gives me a barely perceptible nod.
Game on.
