**Chapter 20: The Aftermath** I find myself slumped in the eerie silence of the empty locker room, my head bowed, shoulders tense with the weight of regret and fury. The urge to seize the nearest object—my helmet, dangerously close—and smash it against the wall is almost overwhelming. My right hand, bloodied and raw from the uppercut I had unleashed on that St. Anthony’s forward, sits clenched between my thighs, letting the warmth seep into my hockey pants. The animosity I’ve harbored towards those bastards from St. Anthony’s is palpable; having been rivals for as long as I can remember, their taunts are an unwelcome yet familiar melody that plays each time we clash on the ice. But this time, the tension has escalated, fueled by previous incidents where they harassed Grace’s friend, holding her hostage in a dingy motel room while they swiped her phone. Tonight, however, it’s me who’s at fault. Amid the clamor of trash talk and the adrenaline of battle on the ice, I lost my temper. One too many jabs from that jerk, and I blew my top. Unsportsmanlike conduct—that’s what the refs decided to call it. Ridiculous. If they could only hear the venom spewing from Connelly’s mouth, they’d toss him out like garbage, too. Now, I sit here, the only one sent off the rink, waiting for Coach Jensen's inevitable lecture or for O’Shea to deliver yet another drumming. Two reprimands within twenty-four hours? Just my luck. The memory of last night’s confrontation with O’Shea—after I had celebrated a Hurricanes victory—and the feeling of betrayal from Allie's secret rendezvous with her ex hangs over me like a dark cloud. Had I really resorted to drowning my sorrows with Beau after Allie dared to rekindle old flames? What a disaster. Footsteps echo ominously from the hallway. I tense, bracing myself, then realize they’re not heading toward the ice. The door opens with a hesitant knock. “Dean?” Allie’s voice cuts through the haze of my frustration, making me look up. How the hell did she get back here? With security guards stationed around the facility during home games, it’s baffling. Memories rush back of the time some rival fan broke in just to vandalize our lockers. “Dean, are you in there?” She knocks again, her tone sweet and urgent. “Yeah,” I reply, a rasp betraying my effort to sound unbothered. Allie peeks her head into the room, her blond hair knotted messily into a bun, a red sweater hugging her figure, and jeans clinging to her thighs. That familiar pang hits me—has she been crying? Her blue eyes are glimmering with something more than the usual spark, rimmed red. “How did you get past security?” I grumble, fighting to maintain my tough exterior. “I told the guard I was your girlfriend and that I needed to check on my man.” She grins, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “There may have been a few crocodile tears involved. I have a talent for crying on command.” “So he bought that?” “Of course. I even showed him my Briar ID to prove I wasn’t a saboteur.” She moves closer, taking a seat beside me, the tension from earlier easing slightly. “Why did you get kicked out of the game?” she asks, her gaze discerning yet soft. I cannot meet her eyes. “I punched someone. Foolish, I know. I deserve this.” “Maybe. But it still sucks,” she says quietly, her eyes tracing my face, as if trying to find the cracks in my armor. “You’re avoiding me.” “Just a bit,” I concede, trying to sound nonchalant. “A bit?” The incredulity in her voice pierces me. “Dean, you’re either avoiding someone, or you aren’t. There isn’t a ‘bit’ about it.” I shrug, deflecting her piercing gaze. “There are circumstances to consider. Unexpected variables.” “What kind of circumstances?” “Doesn’t matter,” I murmur, hoping to evade her questions. “It does matter,” she insists, pressing a hand against my cheek, forcing me to meet her gaze. “I know you’re pissed at me for seeing Sean.” “I’m not pissed. You’re free to see whoever you want,” I retort, my tone masking the fury simmering just beneath the surface. The hypocrisy isn’t lost on me. “But weren’t we supposed to keep each other in the loop before we hooked up with anyone else?” “I didn’t hook up with him.” “No?” I challenge, disbelief coloring my tone. “No,” she affirms, sharp and resolute. “And if you’re upset because you think Sean and I got back together, I assure you, we haven’t. He wanted to, but I said no.” As a wave of relief crashes over me, I feign indifference. “Good to know,” I say, though her knowing smile reveals she sees right through me. Allie intertwines her fingers with mine, warmth radiating from her touch. “I don’t want him. It’s over between us. I told him that yesterday,” she insists. I take a breath, squeezing her hand tighter. “Sean wasn’t thrilled to hear that, I bet.” “Nope. But he’ll have to accept it.” Her thumb glides over my knuckles, grazing softly. “You shouldn’t be fighting, you know.” “It’s hockey,” I plead, trying to justify my actions. “We get into it sometimes. It’s part of the game.” “But what did he say to provoke you?” I shake my head. “I don’t even remember. It’s all a blur, and I was already in a foul mood.” Her expression morphs into one of guilt. “Because of me?” “Nah.” I squeeze her hand. “O’Shea is on my back once again because another damn picture surfaced on Instagram.” A harsh chuckle escapes me. “I need to be more careful when I’m at Malone’s.” “O’Shea? The one who made you volunteer at the middle school?” “Yup. Defensive coordinator.” “Okay. And what picture is it? A picture from Malone’s? Of us?” Her face drains of color. “No,” I assure her. “It’s me and Penelope—the puck bunny that was all over me. O’Shea is furious.” “Why? Is PDA forbidden? Not that I’m saying you were reciprocating—I know she came on to you,” she adds quickly. “But even if you were,” she fumbles, “how can that be punishable?” “His problem isn’t the PDA; I was holding a beer in the picture. He’s got a stick up his ass about drinking.” “What? He realizes he’s coaching college athletes, right? You can’t enforce a no-drinking rule.” “I know.” “And what’s wrong with just holding a beer? It’s not like you were caught snorting lines of coke off her body.” A smile unwittingly breaks across my face. “Of course not. If I was going to, I’d use yours.” “Aw, thanks. That’s romantic.” She leans closer, planting a kiss on my cheek. “O’Shea is an idiot. Don’t let him rattle you to the point of throwing punches and getting thrown out of games.” She’s right; I need to reign in my temper. But dear God, Frank O’Shea… Just hearing his condescending voice infuriates me. Allie’s lips brush my jaw softly, and then she reluctantly releases my hand. “I should go before someone sees me in here. The third period is almost over.” “Did you catch the score before coming back?” I ask, half-hopeful. “I think it was tied.” Shit. I hope my teammates can pull ahead, because I’m sick to death of losing. I’m also weary of sneaking around, if I’m being honest. What had been thrilling—the secret rendezvous with Allie—no longer holds the same allure. When she showed up at Malone’s looking so stunning, all I wanted was to ravage her in the open, uninhibited by secrecy. My friends are blissfully unaware of my entanglements. Yesterday at brunch, Tucker had joked as he slid a plate of bacon and eggs toward me, asking if my “little pink buddy” would join us for breakfast. Garrett nearly choked from laughing, and Grace? She could hardly look at me without blushing. Allie’s apprehensions about having our friends know about us are understandable, yet the urge for freedom gnaws at me. What if we booked a hotel and spent the entire weekend together in blissful ignorance of the outside world? Inspiration strikes. “Hey, wait,” I call out, stopping her before she can stand. “Did you book your train ticket for Thanksgiving yet?” She curses softly, annoyance flickering across her face. “No—ugh! I’m terrible at remembering things. I set a reminder and everything!” “Don't book it.” “Why not?” she asks, confusion wrinkling her brow. “Because I have a better idea,” I continue, hesitating, weighing my next words carefully. “How about I come with you to New York? We can take my car.” Her expression shifts, surprise mingling with hesitation. “You… want to spend Thanksgiving together? But I’m seeing my dad—” “I’m not inviting myself to dinner or anything,” I interrupt, rushing to diffuse the tension. “I figured I could crash at my place in Manhattan while you’re with him, and if you’re free Thursday or Friday night, you can come over.” I arch my eyebrows, the playful glint returning. “We’d have the whole place to ourselves.” Her eyes light up with intrigue. “Well, that sounds intriguing. When do you need to be back at Briar?” “Saturday morning.” “Same here,” she replies, a smile stretching across her lips. “Timing works out…” “Does that mean you’re in?” I ask, hopeful. “A free ride to New York and some wild weekend together? Absolutely.” “Great. There’s just one favor I need to ask.” She tilts her head, curiosity piquing. As my spirit lifts from the depths of discontent, I reveal my request, “Bring Winston.” And that’s how I end up with Allie in the passenger seat on our way to New York. The sun has long dipped below the horizon by the time we hit the road. Allie had a rehearsal until six, followed by a frenzied packing spree that left her overstuffed suitcase wedged in my trunk, practically bursting at the seams. I had hastily tossed my hockey bag back there, underestimating just how much she’d try to cram into three days. Thank the Lord the parking lot behind Bristol is deserted, sparing us the embarrassment of struggling to fit the suitcase into the trunk while keeping our antics incognito. It feels as if the campus has been swallowed by a void; perhaps it has, as most of our friends have flown the coop for their holiday escapes. Hannah and Garrett left for Philly early this morning, while Grace and Logan took off shortly after, heading to his father’s rehab before visiting his mother in Boston. Tucker is still at home, but he’s leaving for Hollis’s place in New Hampshire tomorrow, and I'm gratified that he has plans; otherwise, guilt would’ve compelled me to invite him into my world. Settling into the front seat together, I soon discover our musical tastes are at odds. After a good five minutes of bickering, we negotiate a thirty-minute music block each, a compromise that she whimsically enforces by timing me. Of course, she announces with a cheeky grin that she’s going first. “Why can’t I go first?” I protest. “Because I’m playing the vagina card,” she states, as if it’s a trump card. I can’t hide my smirk. “Then I’ll play the penis card.” “Not how this works,” she retorts, her exasperation evident. “If you take away my penis privileges, I could last months, even years. But if I took away yours? Oh, you’d drown like a man lost at sea, flailing to clutch the vagina life preserver.” Her reasoning irrefutably silences me. Thus begins my thirty minutes of torment, listening to cheestastic 80s ballads with “love” in the title—“I Want to Know What Love Is,” “I Just Called to Say I Love You,” “It Must Have Been Love.” Allie must have chosen them intentionally, and if she was, I’m certain the cheesy lyrics were meant to send me a message. When my time arrives, I retaliate with the guttered beats and raw energy of hip-hop, mixed with some dirty tracks. I even throw in an Insane Clown Posse song for good measure. Allie, unyielding, counters with Madonna’s greatest hits as if preparing artillery for battle. With about two hours still left on the I-90, Allie pulls out her phone, juggling thoughts like apples in a fruit stand. “Who are you texting?” I quiver, trying to distract myself from the highway. “Dillon…a friend from high school. She’s in college in Florida, but I hope she’s coming home for the break. Oh, and I should check if Fletch is around,” she responds, casually. “Fletch? Your ex?” Her eyes narrow on me. “Retract those claws. Fletch is still a good friend of mine.” My curiosity burns. “How long were you two together?” “Three years.” I whistle low in response. “And three and a half more with Sean… You’re a nester, huh?” “No, I’m not!” she protests. “Babe, that’s nearly seven years of your life spent in serious relationships. And you’re only twenty-two.” “Twenty-one. Christmas baby,” she retorts proudly. “Real? You share a birthday with Christmas?” “Christmas Eve,” she clarifies. “Everyone forgets it, so I guess that makes me a Christmas Eve baby. Sorry.” “Forgiveness isn’t yours to give; that’s outrageous!” I tease. “Yes, I’m sure,” she rolls her eyes. “Fine, you’re right. It was a long time.” “What’s the longest relationship you’ve had?” she asks, and my heart sinks slightly. “A little over a year,” I admit quietly. “Really? I expected less,” she counters, surprised. “High school?” I nod, processing the memories. “Why’d you break up?” Rolling my eyes, I retort, “Because we were in high school.” “Wait a second. What if she was your soulmate?” Allie raises an eyebrow. “You don’t think high school sweethearts can make it?” “Nope. How can you decide what you want at that age? In high school, you’re clueless about reality and how much growing up there is to come. I’m not the same person I was a year ago, let alone in my teens.” “Sure you are,” she chuckles. “Last semester, you were a manwhore. This semester? Manwhore again.” “Fair enough,” I snicker. Allie drops her phone in the cupholder and turns toward me, her gaze sharp. “Do you still talk to your high school girlfriend?” A streak of tension unfurls within me. “No.” “We just lost touch?” she presses. “Something like that.” My exhale is heavy. “She’s the reason O’Shea can’t stand me; Miranda is his daughter.” “All right, that’s a major red flag,” she chides me. “You dated your coach’s daughter?” “Do I look like someone who follows rules?” My grin fades fast. “At that time, Miranda was unbeatable. I couldn’t resist. The girl was cool, down-to-earth—nothing like the girls I’d gone to school with; she didn’t care about status or appearances. She was funny and incredibly hot.” “Well, duh. Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis only hooks up with the hottest girls,” she smirks. “I didn’t hook up with her right away,” I clarify. “It took time to get there; I wasn’t rushing. We had fun doing other stuff.” “So when did you finally do it?” she quips. “A couple of months before we broke up,” I grunt, the memory bringing an unwanted flash of discomfort. Suddenly the mood shifts—a weight falls into her expression. “What happened?” Why did I open this can of worms? “About nine months in, things got intense. She started talking about us staying together when we went to college, and it completely freaked me out.” “Oh no,” Allie whispers, apprehension in her eyes. “Did O’Shea know?” “Yeah, he knew,” I sigh. “He wasn’t thrilled, but he said he’d support her happiness. Didn’t stop the interrogation every time I picked her up for a date, though. Threatened me once, too—said he’d shoot my balls off if I didn’t treat her right.” “Dads are like that,” she offers, lost in thought. “So Miranda starts getting clingy,” I continue. “She’d call me ten times a day, paranoid I was cheating. And when I wasn’t, mind you. She’d even follow me to the bathroom. One night at a party, I saw the writing on the wall—she dragged me upstairs, and I was drunk, not thinking straight. We had sex. Then she reveals she was a virgin.” Allie’s eyes widen. “Oh shit.” “Yeah. I felt like the biggest ass afterward. I was sloppy drunk and she got a sloppy first time with me. Next day, she was all over me saying she felt closer than ever, and her clinginess went off the charts. She started planning college visits—and that means she wanted to get engaged, making things worse.” “That’s a lot of pressure for a high school kid,” she murmurs softly. “I know,” I confess. “But it just got worse. Her paranoia intensified, and I was getting crushed under the weight of it all. I had a freak-out moment and I ended it.” Allie’s brow furrows with concern. “I understand. That’s a lot for any teenager.” “But Miranda didn’t handle it well,” I admit, regretting everything. “Eventually, I learned she was off her meds after we broke up. She dealt with depression, but I didn’t know. I thought I was dating the fun girl, you know? After we split, she completely changed—crying, screaming, calls in the middle of the night threatening to take her life. I couldn’t handle it, and I had to involve her dad. It was a nightmare.” “Oh God,” she gasps, horrified. “What did he say?” “He pulled her out of school, told me she was back on her meds. And then he threatened me—if I ever contacted her again, he’d tear my throat out. I didn’t reach out after that, but I still worried. And then a month later, I confronted O’Shea about her. He punched me in the face.” Her mouth drops open in disbelief. “Seriously?” “Yeah. No one saw. It was late, no one else around,” I relate, annoyance scraping my throat. “Found out he had learned we had sex and all about my drinking—she told him. He thought I was just some drunk who took advantage of her, and I wasn’t.” Agony laces my words. “Well, that’s hell,” Allie sympathizes. “No wonder O’Shea hates you.” “Exactly. He thinks I played her and then ditched her once I got what I wanted. Some people are just determined to believe stories that fit their narrative.” She studies me carefully, and I realize the judgment has faded, replaced by understanding. “You make more sense to me now. This is why you’re upfront about sex. You want to avoid misunderstandings.” “I won’t mislead anyone again,” I assert. “I don’t care if it makes me an ass; I never lie about my intentions. And I don’t do virgins. Or freshmen.” “All those rules of yours seem intense,” Allie observes, an amused smile dancing on her lips. “Without those rules, there’s no Life of Dean,” I shrug, deflecting. “The virgin thing is rough, though. A girl could easily lie about that,” she quips back with a laugh. “I’ve got my radar honed these days,” I retort, confidence swirling in me. “How’d you know I wasn’t a virgin?” she challenges, raising an eyebrow. “Garrett stayed in your dorm weekends, heard you and Sean in the bone zone a million times. He told me you’re a screamer.” Her eyes widen with indignation. “He did not!” “Oh, trust me, he did. Babe, you’re loud,” I chuckle, relishing in her embarrassment. “That’s not a bad thing!” I jest, remembering how good it felt to be enveloped by her in those blissful moments. “But I’d take a passionate woman over a silent one any day. Silent comers are the worst. I once slept with this girl who didn’t make a sound. I honestly wondered if she was even enjoying herself.” Allie nearly howls with laughter. “You’re making that up.” “Not a chance.” “You’re honestly not lying?” Her tone softens, surveying me with intrigue. “I’m starting to think you might be the most honest person I’ve ever met.” “Another requirement in the Life of Dean,” I echo. “Say what you mean, and mean what you say.” “And do what you want.” “And do what you want,” I finish. “I think I really like the Life of Dean,” she smiles. I want to say I really like you, the thought bubbling up like a rush of heat. But I quash the sentiment just in time. A few hours later, I park in front of a three-story brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, only to have Allie throw me a curveball. “Do you want to come for dinner tomorrow?” she offers, the invitation both surprising and unnerving. My heart pounds in my chest, anxiety creeping in. Did she really mean that? The unease must be evident because Allie rushes on. “I wouldn’t be insulted if you said no. Honestly, you can say no. It just struck me how lonely you’d be in Manhattan for Thanksgiving while your family is off enjoying some tropical paradise without you, so I thought I’d extend the invite.” “What…” I clear my throat. “What would you tell your dad?” “I’ll just say you’re a friend from school who didn’t have anywhere else to go. It won't be a big deal. You guys will talk hockey, I’ll whip up dinner, we’ll catch some football, and hey—there’s a forty percent chance we’ll all get food poisoning. Just your regular Hayes family Thanksgiving.” I can’t help the laughter that spills forth. “That sounds like a blast.” I consider it. “Okay, I’m in. What time?” “Four should be fine, but we probably won’t eat until five,” she replies, a radiant smile lighting up her features. “Okay. Awesome.” My consensus hangs in the air, buoyed by the hope of spending more time with her. “Now help me get that suitcase out of the trunk, will you? I’m pretty sure I’ll put my back out trying to lift that thing myself.” As we step out into the crisp air, I feel a sense of anticipation unfurling within me, hinting at the possibilities Thanksgiving might hold.