Chapter 21 CASANOVA WANNABE
SEAN
I keep telling myself it makes sense with Julie. She's smart, hot as hell, and she actually helps me tighten up the parts of my life I usually ignore—media training, image, all that crap. It's practical. Easier than starting over with someone new every time. Sure, there's a price tag attached to it, but what relationship doesn't come with strings? Doesn't it even out if you're both getting something? I'm not unhappy, so it has to be fine. Right?
Julie showed up with a soft knock and a Starbucks tray, all warm eyes and pouty lips. "Thought you could use something stronger than locker room coffee," she said, holding up an iced americano like it could fix a fractured hip.
She wasn't wrong.
We ended up on the couch, her tucking herself against me like she'd been doing it forever. Easy. Effortless. Exactly the kind of comfort I didn't know I needed until it was there.
"You okay?" she asked.
I lied. "Yeah."
She reached up, fingers brushing my jaw, steady and practiced. "I could run you through some media stuff," she offered softly. "Keep your mind busy."
And that's the thing about Julie—she always has an angle, but at least it's one that helps.
I gave her a half smile. "You offering professional advice or distraction?"
"Both," she said, settling closer. "But let's start with PR tips."
Her version of media training wasn't exactly conventional. She perched herself in my lap and started quizzing me like she was the hardball journalist and I was the rookie learning the ropes.
"What would you say to a reporter who asks if you're dating someone?" she fired off.
I blinked, already knowing I'd failed.
"Wrong answer," she said immediately, grinning too wide. "You blinked. You're hiding something."
I couldn't help it—I laughed. "That's literally just my face, Delgado."
"Your face is too trained." She crossed her arms, half-pretending to pout, half-delighted at catching me off guard. "I don't trust it."
"You should see me on post-game press night."
"Oh, I have." Her eyes narrowed. "Polished. Too polished. You've got politician answers. Let's fix that."
I leaned back, giving her my best captain grin. "Bring it on."
She straightened like she was about to start a TED Talk, then dropped her voice lower, silkier. "Alright, Callahan. You're walking off the ice. Big win. Cameras in your face. First question: Is it true the BU captain has a lucky pre-game ritual involving a blonde and a Bruins hoodie?"
I laughed. "Next question."
"Deflection," she tsked, tapping a finger against my chest. "Media sees right through that."
"What's the right answer then?"
"You tell them, 'The only thing lucky about me is the girl I'm seeing.'"
I raised a brow. "Bold."
Her lips curved. "You want bold, Captain? Let's go bolder."
And then she swung one leg over, straddling me like this was just another drill. Hands on my shoulders, mouth inches from mine, every inch of her radiating control. "Okay, what do you say when they ask: are you the kind of player who commits off the ice? Or do you just enjoy scoring when it counts?"
Jesus.
"That's not a real question."
"You'd be surprised," she said, licking her bottom lip like punctuation. "People dig. And if they don't—well, I will."
The air between us shifted. Hockey, media, roommates—all of it dropped away.
"You want another question?" she asked, eyes daring me.
I muttered, "Pretty sure I'm already failing the test."
She smirked. "Correct answer would've been: I don't just score. I stay in the game."
Then she kissed me. Intentional, sharp, practiced. Like she'd been waiting all week to remind me exactly how good she was at making me forget. And for a second—I let her. Her hands threaded into my hair, my grip found her waist, and the routine was muscle memory. Familiar. Easy.
For a flicker of time, I wasn't thinking about Ryan in a hospital bed. Or Matthews hovering in the hallway. Or the sound of her scream splitting me down the middle.
Julie pulled back just enough to smirk, pleased. "Told you I was good at media."
"Terrifying," I said.
She laughed. "And you're still the most guarded guy I know. But at least now you're smiling."
I was. But not the way it mattered. The smile never reached all the way in.
That's how I let Julie Delgado, with her perfect lashes and sharp angles, press her mouth to mine and whisper things I wasn't even listening to. It worked. For a while.
〰️〰️〰️
Sunlight slices across the kitchen tiles as we pad downstairs. Julie's still in my old BU hoodie—the red one that used to smell like away games and victory, and now looks like it belongs to her. My eyes are gritty from too little sleep, and she's humming like she's already won the day.
"Morning, sinners," Rae drawls from the counter, spinning a spoon in her cereal. She's in Zach's oversized Terriers jersey and doesn't look remotely guilty about it.
Emma, already perched with her mug, smiles sleepily. "Coffee's fresh. Ty made it."
Ty looks half-dead in sweats and a BU beanie. "Don't drink it," he mutters. "Rae's been roasting me for using almond milk."
Julie arches a brow. "You guys slept here?"
"Yup," Rae pops the p, offering no further explanation.
Zach follows her in a minute later, hair a mess, scrolling his phone like he's breaking news. "Did you guys know McKenna was, like, top three in her event nationally?" he says, holding it up.
Mason tosses a protein bar on the counter. "Looked her up after the party. NCAA rankings. The girl's a goddamn machine."
Rae's voice softens. "She was aiming for the Olympic team. That's why she focused on the 400. Better odds. She gave up heptathlon just to chase that one shot."
Emma nods. "She worshipped the greats. Sydney McLaughlin, Allyson Felix—she literally memorized their warmups."
Ty whistles low. "And she never bragged? That's insane."
"That's not Ryan." Rae says firmly.
My grip tightens around my mug. The coffee tastes stale in my mouth. I knew she was fierce. But I didn't know she was all that.
Julie's hand slides down my arm, gentle. "Hey, you okay?"
"Yeah," I lie, because what else can I say? Ryan isn't mine. Never was. But hell, that doesn't stop the ache.
I set the mug down, forcing the captain back into me like armor. "Enough gossip. We've got Penn State this week, and I don't want another sloppy performance. We need to be sharp. All of us."
The room goes quieter, the shift immediate.
My eyes find Zach first. "Stay out of the box. We need you on the ice, not warming a seat for penalties."
He mutters something under his breath, but he nods.
Then Mason. "You've got to pick up speed and be smarter on defense. Read the ice better. Anticipate, don't just react."
Mason looks like he wants to argue, then thinks better of it. He just grunts.
"Penn State's fast, but not unbeatable," I continue. "We play disciplined, we stay locked in, we come out on top. No excuses."
The words come out strong, sure, steady. The kind of voice they expect from their captain.
But under it all, my mind is still stuck on Ryan.
Always, lately, on Ryan.