I spot Cam next, now free of reporters. He’s checking his phone, a small smile on his face.
“Cam! Penalty Box tonight? First round’s on me.”
He glances up, an apologetic expression already forming. “Sorry, Dylan. I’ve got dinner plans with Nila tonight.”
“Right, right.” I nod. “Another time.”
Three for three comes when I approach Blaze, who’s already got his coat on and keys in hand. Before I even open my mouth, he’s shaking his head.
“It’s date night with Addy,” he says, not even bothering to look sorry about it. “We’ve had it planned for weeks. She’s got some new recipe she wants to try.”
“I get it,” I say, though I’m not sure I do. “Go be disgustingly happy and domestic.”
Blaze laughs and claps me on the shoulder. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, man. One day you’ll figure it out.”
I force a laugh, but it rings hollow in my chest.
One by one, my best friends are abandoning ship for ... what? Family dinner? Homework? Recipe testing?
When did we all get so old?
The worst part is the way they always check their phones after games. They get these cheesy smiles when they see text messages from their significant others. Like they can’t wait to get home. Like there’s somewhere better to be than celebrating with their teammates after a win.
I’ve never understood that pull. I’ve never wanted to be tied down like that. I like my freedom, my space. I like my ability to do what I want, when I want, with whoever I want.
Don’t I?
“Yo, Williamston!” A voice breaks through my thoughts. Paul and a couple of the other rookies—Nate and Brad—are huddled by the door, clearly waiting for someone. Forme, I realize. “We’re heading to The Penalty Box. You coming?”
My first instinct is to decline. The rookies are good kids, but they’re ... well, rookies. Still starstruck by the NHL, stillin awe of veterans like me. It can be exhausting being “Dylan Williamston, the Hockey Star” instead of just Dylan.
But the alternative is heading home to my empty house.
Booooring.
At least at the bar, I won’t be alone with my thoughts.
“Sure.” I shrug. “Why not?”
The Penalty Box is packed, as it always is after a home game. The place smells like beer and fried food. The walls are covered in hockey memorabilia from high school to the pro level. Three large screens are replaying highlights from tonight’s game. I catch a replay of my goal on the center screen, my arms raised in celebration as the puck hits the back of the net.
“There he is!” someone shouts as we push through the crowd. “The man of the hour!”
Several people reach out to clap my shoulder and offer high fives. I smile and nod, playing my part. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the fans—I do, more than they know. But sometimes the attention feels ... well, not hollow, exactly. But a little ... disconnected from who I really am.
We squeeze into a corner booth, and the rookies immediately launch into a play-by-play breakdown of the game. I nurse my beer, only half listening as they argue about whether Cam’s pass to me was skill or luck.
“It was beautiful, that’s what it was,” Nate insists, his face flushed with excitement and probably the two shots he downedas soon as we were seated. “Did you see the way he threaded it between those two defensemen? Surgical, man.”
I smile and nod, letting their enthusiasm wash over me without really engaging. My mind keeps drifting, replaying the moment afterward—where we were celebrating, and I looked up into the stands, scanning the crowd as I always do, searching for...
For what? For who?
An image of Cheyenne flashes in my mind. Her smile, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs. It’s been over a week since we went to the Christmas tree farm, since our dinner afterward. I’ve texted her a couple times—nothing serious, just checking in. She seems better. Moving on from Garrett the Jerk, as I’ve taken to calling him in my head.
“Dylan.” Paul waves a hand in front of my face, jolting me back to the present. “Are you still with us?”
“Sorry.” I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. “I was just replaying that last goal.”
