The Dixon Rule: Chapter 22

“IS IT JUST ME OR ARE THOSE THE TWO BEST–LOOKING MEN YOU’VE EVER seen in your life? They’re better looking than most male celebrities.”

“They’re beautiful,” I agree.

“I don’t know if men like being called beautiful.”

“Not my problem. They are.”

From the away bench at center ice, Will and I stand on skates, ogling Garrett Graham and Jake Connelly. Two NHL superstars. One Hall of Famer. Two beautiful men.

I’ve already texted my dad a few photos of them, which I discreetly snapped when nobody was looking. Or at least I hope nobody noticed, because that’s some stalker shit right there. But I know Dad would get a huge kick out of seeing this.

“Okay—fuck, marry, kill,” I say.

“Who are we killing?” Will furrows his brow. “There’s only two of them.”

“The wife of the one you want to marry.”

Taking the request oddly seriously, he studies both men from head to toe as they engage in discussion on the other side of the rink. They’re wearing black pants and navy-blue hoodies that are identical at first glance, until you peer closer and see Graham’s sweatshirt has the Bruins logo, while Connelly’s is the Oilers. Jake’s forehead creases as he listens intently to Garrett.

Will finally answers. “Fuck Graham. Marry Connelly. Kill Connelly’s wife before she kills me for stealing her husband.”

“Good call.” Brenna Connelly is terrifying. I’ve seen her cut down men twice her size on her TSBN sports show. She knows her hockey better than all the analysts at the network combined.

“Oh shit. Plot twist,” Will mumbles under his breath. “Check out his body.”

John Logan skates over to join the trio. He’s refereeing today’s game too. Another Stanley Cup winner. Another legend.

How is this my life?

“Dude, his physique is ridiculous,” I rave.

“You guys realize we’re here, right?”

Will and I twist toward the row of teenage boys on the bench behind us. They range from sixteen to eighteen years old, and every single one of them stares at us like we’ve lost the plot.

“You shouldn’t objectify men like that,” one kid says earnestly.

“Besides,” the guy next to him adds, “if you’re really gonna give out awards for the most beautiful, that one over there obviously wins.”

He points at a fourth man who’s gliding toward the small group of men. The newcomer is tall, blond, and looks like a male model. He’s snapping on a black helmet as he joins the others.

“Dude,” gripes the player at the end of the bench. “That’s my dad.”

I examine the teen, instantly noting the resemblance. His name is Beau, and although his hair is a shade darker than his father’s, he has the same green eyes and chiseled features. He hasn’t completely filled out yet, but he’s already tall and built. I fear for the opponents he’ll be facing in a couple years.

“Refs!” Graham blows his whistle to get our attention. He waves Will and me over.

Will eyes me nervously. “Don’t let me say anything to embarrass myself.”

“Same.”

Garrett greets us with a smile and introduces us to John Logan, who needs no introduction, and Dean Di Laurentis, who as it turns out is the head coach of the Yale women’s hockey team. Like Will and me, Logan and Dean are decked out in striped long-sleeves, black helmets, and whistles around their necks. But the two men also wear orange armbands, since they’re refs and we’re lowly linesmen.

Ryder and Troy Talvo round out the group. As assistant coaches, they had the difficult task of helping Garrett and Jake select today’s two teams. Ryder said they chose the players based on their strengths and weaknesses, having worked with them all week.

Garrett is about to give us instructions when his gaze sharply veers toward the home bench. “Hey, G,” he calls. “Hold up. I want to talk to you before you go!”

“Oh shit, I didn’t realize they were leaving. Give me a sec too.” Ryder pushes off on his blades, skating after his father-in-law.

Gigi waits for them at the bench, leaning over the side to give Ryder a quick kiss before turning to speak to her father. She’s not alone—a girl with light-brown hair wanders away from Gigi toward the other bench to speak to some of the boys. She’s wearing cutoff shorts and a black tank top that bears her midriff, and there isn’t a single teenage boy on that bench who isn’t checking her out.

As we wait for Garrett and Ryder, Will and I awkwardly stand with our fellow refs while I try not to leer at John Logan’s shoulders. They’re enormous. How is he still so fit at his age? I mean, okay, he’s not ancient. Early forties maybe. But still. The man is in better shape than a lot of guys my age.

“You’re late,” Dean hollers at yet another newcomer.

A man with auburn hair skates over, his blades hissing as he comes to a stop. He rolls his eyes at Dean. “Calm yourself. I’m not even reffing. Just here for the entertainment.” Noticing Will and me, he smiles. “Hey. I’m Tucker.”

“Shane,” I say, reaching to shake his hand. “This is Will.”

“Did you guys all play together in college?” Troy Talvo asks, gesturing between the three men. “I heard Garrett say something like that.”

“Briar hockey, baby,” Dean confirms, flashing a perfect white smile. “We were unstoppable.”

Logan nods, blue eyes gleaming. “Back-to-back Frozen Four wins. Damn. That was something, huh?”

“That’s our plan for this season,” I tell the men. “We killed it last year, so now we—”

I startle when Logan suddenly growls. “Nope. No fucking way, Dean. This is not fucking happening. Go get your boy.”

I follow his gaze and see Beau Di Laurentis hugging the girl in the crop top. They’re clearly happy to see each other.

“Chill. It’s just a hug,” Dean replies, unbothered.

“His hand grazed her lower back.”

“His hand didn’t graze shit.”

Logan’s tone remains deadly. “It’s not happening. I’m not letting a Di Laurentis corrupt her.”

“He’s only sixteen, and he’s not doing anything.”

Trying not to laugh, I interrupt their heated exchange. “I take it that’s your daughter and that’s his son?” I ask Logan.

“No, that’s my daughter, and that is his future fuckboy.”

“I mean, the kid’s old enough to already be one,” I hedge, while Will snickers softly.

Logan glares at me. So does Dean.

“Sorry.” I hold up my hands. “It’s true. Sixteen is old, bro. I mean, when did you lose your virginity?”

“I didn’t,” Dean says primly. “I’ve never had the joy of laying with a woman.”

Will, Tucker, and I start laughing, but Logan’s expression lacks all traces of humor.

“I was fourteen.” He’s visibly upset. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why did we ever have a child? We knew there was a fifty percent chance it would be a daughter.”

Dean grins at Logan’s dramatics. “Relax. Look—Blake’s hugging AJ now. Go bother Connelly.”

“My daughter will never date a hockey player,” Logan says ominously. “I know what they’re like.”

“What about you?” I ask Tucker. “Any daughters in danger of being corrupted?”

He drags a hand over his reddish beard, snorting loudly. “My girls would eat these boys alive.”

“Heartbreakers, the both of them,” Dean agrees.

Garrett and Ryder rejoin the group, and we go over the game plan.

“All right, so you’re aware of what to call and what not to call?” Graham asks the refs.

“Only call penalties against my kid. And let him punch people in the teeth if he wants,” Dean says with a straight face.

We all snicker.

“Yeah, we’re going to do the opposite of that,” Connelly says with a sigh.

“How aggressive are we allowed to let it get?” I ask them.

“As aggressive as you want as long as it’s within the rules. A few of these boys are headed right for the NHL next month. We’re not going easy on them.”

Sometimes I wish I went that route too, but I don’t think I was prepared at eighteen to play professional hockey. Too young and dumb. I wanted to get college under my belt first, before I went to Chicago and unleashed myself on the world.

Garrett claps his hands. “We’re treating this as a real game. Three full periods. High pressure.”

Jake nods. “Let’s do it.”

“Get ready to be slaughtered,” Garrett tells Connelly with a big smile. “Son-in-law and I got this.”

“Nah. Harvard men get it done.”

“He calls you Son-in-law?” I grin at Ryder as the men skate off.

He sighs. “Yeah. Either that or Mr. Ryder.”

“At least he likes you now,” Will says helpfully.

“I mean, ‘likes’ is pushing it. Tolerates me is more accurate. But he knows I’d die for his daughter, so that’s all that really matters.”

The game gets underway. Part of Ryder’s and Talvo’s job was to organize the lines as if they were putting together their own team. Team Graham’s first line features Beau Di Laurentis. Team Connelly lucked out with Jake’s son AJ and Gray Davenport on the same line.

I don’t follow high school hockey too closely, but even I know about this trio. They’re the three best players in the country, and I heard they’ve all already committed to playing for Briar in a couple of years. With that kind star power on the lineup, it’s going to take a lot of flukes and upsets to wrench that Frozen Four trophy out of Jensen’s hands. There’s a reason he’s the winningest coach in college hockey and probably the highest earner. He not only recruits the greatest players, but then after they leave, he gets their kids too. Lucky bastard.

It’s so much fun to watch these boys play. They remind me of myself when I was a teen. The sheer determination. The grit. The balls to make risky plays before your collegiate coaches discipline that recklessness out of you.

Right off the bat, it’s obvious that Beau possesses the overall skill. Puck protection, stickhandling, shooting. His instincts are incredible, and I’m floored by his ability to keep a cool head under pressure. AJ has the speed, though, like his old man. And while Gray’s dad played forward in his days, Gray is a deadly defenseman. He doesn’t let Di Laurentis anywhere near the net on any of his shifts.

I’m starting to think Graham’s team is going to take the drumming of a lifetime, but I’ve underestimated Ryder and his father-in-law. Connelly and Talvo’s strategy was to pack the first line with all the superstars. Graham and Ryder, on the other hand, assigned a superstar to each line, so there’s always one great player on the ice at all times.

When Connelly’s first line leaves the ice, Graham’s second-line superstar scores a goal the moment Davenport is off the ice.

Will and I are on opposite sides, keeping a vigilant eye on the state of play. At one point, I blow an offside whistle on Connelly’s kid. Connelly almost lunges out of the bench toward me, coach and hockey dad rolled into one. I’ve seen many of them, red-faced and screaming, on the sidelines during my own high school games.

“He was over the line, asshole!” Connelly growls at me.

I skate over politely. “One more outburst from you, and I’m throwing you out of this game, Coach.”

Oh my God. I can’t believe I got to say that to Jake Connelly. This is the greatest day of my life.

He harrumphs but is befittingly shamefaced.

“You can’t go calling people assholes,” I hear Talvo reprimanding Connelly afterward, and I smother a laugh. “We’re Harvard. We’re better than that.”

“Sorry, lost my head.”

The game remains at that level of intensity all the way until the last second of the third period. Team Graham’s spread-the-love strategy pays off—they win 3–2, courtesy of a game-winning goal by Beau, who demonstrates why he has the reputation for delivering in clutch situations. Beau’s dad skates over and throws an arm around his shoulders, saying, “Atta boy.”

I skate to the bench and check my phone, but my dad hasn’t responded to any of this afternoon’s texts, not even the photo of Graham and Logan laughing so hard they’re almost falling over. It makes me furrow my brow because Dad never takes more than an hour or so to text back. I shrug it off, though. Maybe he and Mom are just busy with Maryanne.

Ryder breaks away from the other coaches and skates up to me and Will. “Garrett and the others are taking us all out for drinks,” he says. “You two in?”

Will and I gawk at him.

“What?”

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” I say. “Of course we’re in.”

“Idiot,” Will mumbles.

I glance at Will. “You’ve gotten a lot meaner since you started bro’ing out with Beck. I love it.”

He smiles. “Thank you.”