Over the course of the next week, I decide to heed Hannah’s advice and deliberately silence the incessant chatter in my head. Dean and I slowly begin to emerge into the world as a couple, though we make no grand proclamations nor pin on badges of commitment to signal this transition. Our connection is tangible, and every interaction speaks volumes. Whenever we’re out together, he can’t seem to resist touching me. It’s not possessive or boastful; rather, it’s an instinctive, physical way of showing affection. His hand often finds its way to my lower back, while at other times, he brushes a lock of hair behind my ear or allows his fingers to linger on my shoulder. With tender kisses to my temple and cheek, I realize he’s not trying to hold me back or cage me in; the warmth of his presence feels liberating. Of all our friends, Garrett appears the most worried about this new chapter in my life. While Hannah beams with joy at my newfound happiness, Garrett oscillates between cautious skepticism and reluctant acceptance. He harbors the belief that Dean will inevitably break my heart—a disaster that would place a strain on Garrett’s relationship with Hannah, one of his closest friends. Despite my attempts to reassure him that I’m an adult capable of weathering heartbreak, our conversations inevitably drift back to Sean—a name I long to cast into the shadows of my memory. Thankfully, Dean makes that struggle a little easier to bear. When he’s not attending classes or on the ice, he’s right by my side. Sometimes he’s deeply engrossed in a book while I rehearse my lines; at other times, he leans in to help me with my scenes, his laughable high-pitched rendition of a female character always sending me into fits of giggles. It takes several attempts to get through a scene without erupting into laughter, and by the end of it, Dean’s desire is palpable—though he claims it's just my laughter that turns him on. I suspect he would feel that way regardless of the situation. What matters most is our happiness; it’s a happiness I haven’t felt in what feels like an eternity. The thought that Dean Di Laurentis and I are now not only dating but doing so with genuine joy was unimaginable just six weeks ago. If someone had given me a glimpse into the future back then, I would have doubled over in disbelief, laughing at the absurdity of it all. “What do you have planned after rehearsal tonight?” Dean asks from his position on the bed, lounging against the pillows. His tousled hair and relaxed demeanor turn him into a vision of pure allure. I pull my gaze from him and concentrate on the mirror, determined to avoid puncturing an eyelid while applying mascara. “Nothing much. I’ll probably just grab some dinner at one of the meal halls. What about you?” I reply, trying to sound casual. “I have a quick errand to run and then I reserved some ice time for the Hurricanes,” he explains, and my stomach drops a little at the thought of not seeing him tonight. I clench my jaw to hide any trace of disappointment. Just because we’re together doesn’t mean we always have to be glued at the hip. “Want to meet for dinner after?” he adds, and my heart does a little flip. “Sure.” “Great! Can you come to the arena? There’s a restaurant nearby that I think you’ll love. It’s Italian, and they have all this cool old movie memorabilia,” he says, his hand slipping beneath the blankets, which he has loosened to his waist. I roll my eyes. “Would you stop playing with yourself?” I exclaim, dropping the mascara tube and grabbing a tissue to fix the mess I made with the makeup on my eyelid. I can’t seem to divert my attention from him. “What's wrong, baby? Jealous? I was just thinking about how incredibly hot you look,” he teases as he shifts to his side. “You make these little circles with your mouth when you’re putting on your eye makeup. It practically begs me to do something else entirely.” I shoot him an incredulous look. “We just had morning sex,” I remind him, applying two quick strokes of mascara before his wandering hand can escalate into something more serious. “That was thirty minutes ago. Since then, you showered, strutted around in front of me, and then made those little circles with your mouth. So yeah, I’m spontaneously aroused again. Sue me.” With a laugh, I throw on my coat and lean in for a goodbye kiss. “You’ll have to take care of that by yourself because I have class and don’t want to be late,” I say, feeling triumphantly smug. He snuggles closer and plants a kiss on my neck before capturing my lips with his. “I’m going to take care of myself right now so I can hold out longer tonight,” he whispers. Damn it. Now I’m feeling the heat, too. * * * Dean is on the ice at the small arena across from Hastings Elementary when I arrive. I had always imagined coaches barking orders from the sidelines, but here he is, right in the heart of the rink, focusing all his attention on one petite figure sporting pink skates. Pink? Have the Hurricanes switched to a girls’ league? “You’re getting too high! Stay low, so your weight is distributed better,” he instructs, crouching so low that his head almost matches the height of the tiny skater’s. I watch in awe as he glides effortlessly a few yards, bending at the knees and performing a graceful spin. His skills are impressive, a fluidity I didn’t expect. “Come on! Give it another try!” he encourages, his voice warm and motivating. The little skater takes a wobbly step forward. “Remember, when you’re perfectly straight, you’re actually balanced on the inner and outer edges of your blade. The middle is scooped out,” he explains, demonstrating with his finger. “You want to use your edges to keep from spreading out too far. It may feel awkward at first, but I promise you’ll get the hang of it.” With newfound determination, she tentatively pushes forward on her pink skate, repeating the motion until she skates past Dean, who is still in his crouched position. “Is this okay?” a small voice calls out. “Am I doing it right?” “Absolutely!” he replies, his encouragement laced with genuine pride. “You’re a natural, Koty.” “Who’s Koty?” she asks, the innocence of her childlike curiosity evident. “You are! Or wait… maybe Dakota-y? Everyone needs a nickname.” “What’s yours?” she challenges, her fists planted defiantly on her tiny hips. “Awesome. I’m awesome,” he quips, flashing her a wink. Then, without hesitation, he takes her hands in his, and they glide together across the ice—he moves backward effortlessly, while she remains glued to him, her eyes sparkling with admiration. In contrast to the chill of the arena, I find myself feeling warmth spread through me. Dean’s tenderness toward that young girl ignites something within, leaving me astounded at the depths of his character I previously hadn’t noticed. An unexpected sweetness flourishes inside me, filling the empty spaces I had not realized existed. It’s a sensation that takes me entirely off guard. “Are you in love with him?” a nagging voice at the back of my mind whispers. “No,” I insist, the word escaping my lips too quickly. “I don’t have that gooey feeling…” But as I think back to my conversation with Hannah, doubt creeps in. What am I feeling, then? How is it that every little thing he does brings a smile to my face? Why was he the first person I sought when I was feeling low? An ear-piercing whistle shatters my spiraling thoughts, and I’m thankful for the interruption as the sound of dozens of hockey sticks pounding against the ice fills the rink. A line of pint-sized players is now positioned at the edge of the rink, their eager faces brimming with anticipation. Dean gestures for them to skate forward, and they race gleefully to comply, sending up a spray of freshly shaved ice. “While Dakota practices her skating, I want each of you to split into two groups. The first group will carry the puck from the blue line and back. The second group will stand in the middle of the ice. No reaching, no stealing, no checking—just stand there. Once the first group returns, switch places. The most important part of this drill is keeping your heads up,” he directs with authority. As he positions the boys throughout the rink, he stays at the center to manage the chaos. The two groups dash up and down the ice, maneuvering skillfully to dodge one another as they practice. “He’s doing an excellent job,” a deeper voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to see an older man settling nearby on the bleachers. “Dean?” I guess, recognizing him from previous chats. “Yeah, that’s him. He looks happy,” the man replies, a proud smile lighting up his face. “I’m Doug Ellis,” he introduces himself, extending a hand. “Allie Hayes. A friend of Dean’s. He was raving about how well the Hurricanes are doing this season. Better than his own team,” I disclose. Ellis chuckles softly. “Briar isn’t likely to make another Frozen Four appearance this year, unfortunately. How’s Dean dealing with it?” “Pretty well, I think. He has the heart to win, but I don’t believe hockey defines him. He plans to go to law school next year,” I explain, recalling Dean’s perspective on the sport, unlike other players who solely chase the dream. Beside me, Ellis gives a small sigh. “It’s a shame he’s choosing law school. Dean has that gift for teaching.” We both shift our focus back to the skating drill, watching as Dean interacts patiently with the less experienced children, offering gentle advice without raising his voice. He pats their heads and encourages them like they’re little warriors battling their fears. “Do you have a child in the program?” I ask, nodding toward the ice. “Not anymore. My son used to play with the Hurricanes, but now he’s in high school. One of the other PE teachers took over for me after Wyatt moved on, but I wouldn’t trade this coaching gig for anything. Kids at this age are exceptional. They’re eager to learn and still see authority figures as allies, not obstacles. It’s fascinating, really. The mere threat of discipline works wonders.” “It only gets harder from here, I take it?” “Exactly,” he affirms with a wry grin. “Once they grow older, they think they know it all. But Dean? He has a remarkable touch with them. I’ve seen older kids cling to every word he says during practice. It isn’t just the boys, either,” he adds, gesturing toward Dakota, whose adoration for Dean is unmistakable. “She’s enchanted, and that’s even before he gifted her those pink skates. He talks to them like they matter. It’s a rarity among college students—and even adults.” Ellis leans slightly to catch my eye. “If Dean ever pursued coaching or teaching, he’d excel. But I guess being with middle-schoolers isn’t as glamorous as being a lawyer.” “Dean didn’t choose law for the glamour,” I counter, feeling compelled to defend him. “Then have a conversation with him about it! Teaching, coaching—anything that brings him closer to working with kids is where he belongs.” Just as he’s about to rise, I interrupt him. “Why are you sharing this with me?” “Because you look at him the same way Dakota does: like he hung the moon. And I suspect the feeling is mutual,” he observes, tipping his head in farewell before skating off to join Dean and the team. * * * “What was the serious talk about between you and Doug?” I tease, intertwining my fingers with Allie’s as we cross the parking lot toward my car. I hit the unlock button. “Please tell me he wasn’t hitting on you.” Allie’s face pales. “Oh, God, no! In front of those kids? That would be incredibly inappropriate.” My laughter spills out. It’s amusing how someone so daring in the bedroom adheres to such strict principles in public. “So, what did he say?” As we settle into the car, Allie seems to take her time answering. A frown etches across my face as I begin to suspect she’s hiding something—maybe Doug did hit on her after all. Just as I’m about to press her, she surprises me with, “He thinks you should be a teacher.” My eyebrows shoot up. “He actually said that?” She nods. “A teacher, a coach—anything to let you work with kids. Those were his exact words. Personally, I think you’d make an excellent Phys Ed teacher. Then you can blow your whistle and wear those tiny gym shorts. Your ass would look fantastic in them.” A smile teases her lips. “Well, I guess Ellis saw something in you. Some potential,” she continues. “What do you mean?” I ask, perplexed. Allie’s expression shifts, the hint of nostalgia dancing in her gaze. “When I was twelve, I went to my first casting call, and the director told me she saw ‘something’ in me. That pushed me to pursue acting.” “I mean, come on, you were already talented!” I retort. “All I did today was coach a kid and run some hockey drills.” Though it was undeniably fun, the idea of building a career around whistling at kids and overseeing gym classes feels absurd. Is that insane? “I don’t know…” Allie muses playfully. “Maybe dodgeball is your calling. Or coaching at least. You genuinely love working with those boys.” True enough, but… why is this even up for discussion? I’m on the path to law school this fall. I start the engine, reverse out of the parking space, and deftly switch the subject before she can tease me again. “How did rehearsal go?” “It went well, actually. Mallory memorized the final act, which made Steven pleased. But I’m still a little worried.” “Why’s that?” “We’re taking a three-week hiatus for the holidays. What if she comes down with an eggnog coma and forgets all her lines?” I laugh. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. When does opening night land?” “First week of February,” she replies, a momentary pause following. “By then, I might know if I snagged that Fox pilot too.” The lack of enthusiasm weighs heavy in her voice, and I steal a sideways glance, frowning with concern. She mentioned sending an audition tape but hasn’t elaborated on it since. A project with Fox seems like an opportunity worthy of excitement, yet she’s holding back. “Do you want the part?” I ask slowly, my curiosity tinged with trepidation. Her indecision speaks volumes, and I gamefully press the brake as we draw near a red light. “Talk to me, what’s gnawing at you about this project?” Allie shrugs, her expression a mixture of uncertainty and self-reflection. “I’m just not enthused about the part. And, well, lately I’ve thought about steering clear of comedies and diving into more dramatic roles—maybe stage work. Something in New York.” The revelation catches me off guard, but in retrospect, it makes perfect sense. “You want to stay close to your dad,” I deduce gently. Her sad blue eyes meet mine, grabbing my heart. “That’s definitely part of it. His condition is worsening, and the thought of being on the other side of the country from him terrifies me. What if he needs me? I can’t just sign a contract and leave him hanging,” she admits, anxiety creeping into her voice. “What about hiring a nurse? Maybe he wouldn’t mind?” “God no! He would flip if I ever suggested that! I brought it up last year, but he was adamant he could take care of himself.” I can’t suppress the smile that fights to break through, hearing Joe Hayes’ gruff voice echo in my head. “Right now, he can make do on his own… but the numbness in his legs is far worse than last year. So is his vision. He’s using a cane now, but what if he eventually needs a wheelchair? What if that creeps toward paralysis, blindness? If that happens, he’ll need someone, even if it’s not all-day care. I hate thinking about him being alone in Brooklyn,” she reveals, her voice wobbly. I reach across the center console and grasp her cold hand, sensing its tremor. The fear radiating from her becomes insurmountable, sowing my own heart with concern. Both my parents are healthy, so I seldom contemplate their mortality. Yet here is Allie, grappling with the very real loss of her mother and the impending reality of her father’s health deteriorating before her eyes. Caught in this moment, I’m overwhelmed by her resilience, finally comprehending the weight she carries. “Let’s steer clear of this topic for now. I’m bumming myself out,” she resolves softly, her voice steadying. “Tell me more about this restaurant you’re taking me to.” * * * After dinner, we head to my house. Last night, I crashed at Allie’s dorm, so tonight it’s her turn to stay over. We’ve struck a convenient agreement, though Allie has a penchant for playing the “vagina card,” and those moments inevitably skew the arrangement in her favor. My girlfriend. The thought both excites and confounds me. It feels surreal yet thrilling, but I try not to overthink it. Meanwhile, my buddies remain skeptical. Garrett believes I’m destined to botch this relationship in some catastrophic manner, leaving us all in the wreckage. Sometimes, I wish he had more faith in me. After all, he’s the guy who nearly pushed someone to the brink of self-destruction. Memories of Miranda linger uninvited, and guilt and sorrow wash over me at the mere thought: tears, late-night calls filled with desperate intentions, and accusations of my role in her despair. Whenever that moment resurfaces, anguish grips my heart, and I fight the urge to push those thoughts far away. She hasn’t accepted my friend request, which doesn’t shock me; it’s a fitting consequence of the past. As Allie and I step into the compact entryway of my townhouse, the fragrant aroma of what appears to be dinner wafts through the air. Tucker must be home. “Tuck? Where you at?” I shout. “Kitchen!” he calls faintly. Shrugging off my coat, I hang it on a nearby hook while Allie does the same before bending down to unzip her leather boots. I give her a playful smack on the ass, earning a mock scowl in return. “What are you making?” I shout back toward the kitchen. “Soup! And baking some bread,” he replies. I shake my head as I turn to Allie. “Sometimes, I worry about him. The more domestic he becomes, the higher the chances of his penis falling off.” She huffs a disapproving tsks. “Sexist bastard.” “Uh, I think you meant ‘sexy bastard,’” I quip cheekily. “No, I was right the first time,” she insists. Just as we approach the living room, the front door swings open behind us. I turn just in time to react as a whirlwind of blonde hair rushes toward me, launching herself into my arms. “Surprise!” she screams, wrapping both arms around my neck. “Guess who’s spending the weekend!” Dazed and taken off guard, I instinctively return the hug, but from my peripheral vision, I glimpse Allie’s expression twist into a deep frown. Alarm bells go off in my mind. I know exactly the conclusion she’s jumping to, and I need to fix this fast. When a pointed cough escapes Allie’s lips, the interloper swivels her head, eyes widening in realization. “Oh. Hi. And you are?” “Dean’s girlfriend,” Allie replies, her tone tightly laced. “Who are you?” the newcomer asks, a mix of surprise and annoyance etching her features. Instead of offering a response, Summer redirects her attention back to me. “You have a girlfriend? What the hell, Dicky! Why do I always find out last?” Allie emits a low growl at this revelation, and I quickly intervene, desperate to avert an impending disaster. “Summer, this is Allie. Allie, this is Summer—my little sister.”