24. Dylan

Chapter 24

Dylan

T he cursor blinks at me from the screen of my laptop, the document I'm working on empty. My hands rest on the keyboard, but the words I need for this stupid speech refuse to come. How am I supposed to write about what this scholarship means to me if I'm not even sure of that myself yet? Sure, it got me to the school of my dreams, but other than that, it let me stay with my three boyfriends. I don't think the donors want to hear that.

I lean back, cracking my neck, and glance at the clock. The dinner's in two days, and the university wants me to give this speech since they gave me a full ride. Maybe I can change the trajectory and write something inspirational about overcoming setbacks, working as a team, blah blah.

My phone vibrates on my desk, and I groan when I see the name flashing on the screen: Mom . I debate letting it go to voicemail, but it's like she has this sixth sense when I ignore her too long. She'll just keep calling until I give in. So, with a sigh, I swipe to answer.

"Holly." My voice is flat as I switch the phone to speaker and half-heartedly stare at the blinking cursor again.

"You didn't come to the wedding." No hello, no how are you—just straight to the guilt trip. Classic Holly.

I let out a bitter laugh. "Really?"

"Dylan!" she snaps. But I swear I hear a crack beneath her usual cool tone, something she's trying to hide. "Yes, really. I thought you'd stop throwing this tantrum by now. You weren't actually serious about not coming. I thought—"

"You thought wrong." I lean back in my chair, the corner of my mouth tugging upward in a grin that isn't kind. "Did you seriously think I'd miss college lacrosse for your big white-dress fantasy?"

There's a beat of silence. Then I hear it—the unmistakable sound of a sniffle. My grin falters.

"We canceled it," she says, her voice small now, like a balloon slowly losing air.

That throws me. "Wait... what?"

Her breath comes out shaky, like she's trying to keep it together. "He said we couldn't get married without either of our kids there. Said... we have to be in a good place as a family first. His words, not mine."

I blink at the phone, stunned. Gideon always struck me as more concerned with appearances than relationships. Him calling off the wedding because Matthew and I weren't there? That's... unexpected.

Mom makes this soft, frustrated sound. "I know you and Matthew are just being stubborn and immature about all this."

My jaw tightens. "Right. Of course, it's our fault. Everything's always our fault."

"Dylan." She's exasperated now.

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Mom, I gotta go."

"Dylan—"

"I really do." My voice is tight, final, and I end the call before she can guilt me further.

For a moment, I just sit there, gripping the phone, my head spinning. My mother's version of trying has always been more like forcing . She wants things on her terms, in her timeline, no room for negotiation.

Before I can second-guess myself, I hit Matthew's number. He picks up after the second ring.

"Dylan," he answers, sounding as if he's been waiting for my call.

"I just got off the phone with my mom," I say, shifting the phone to my other ear. "Guess what? Wedding's off."

He hums, not surprised. "Yeah, I just got off the phone with my dad. Same story. He's on this whole ‘let's fix the family' kick."

I snort. "Since when does Gideon care about ‘fixing' anything?"

"Since now, apparently." Matthew sounds as skeptical as I feel. "Told him nothing's gonna get fixed if Holly keeps acting like she's the star of her own reality show."

I let out a long breath, letting the humor soften the sting of everything. "Your dad really thinks this whole ‘family unity' thing is going to work?"

Matthew sighs. "I told him not to hold his breath. But he said he's gonna try to rein Holly in." There's a beat of silence before he adds, "I think he knows it won't change much."

"Yeah." I shake my head. "My mom's not been the same since the divorce. She's different now. And not in a good way."

"So," Matthew says, shifting gears, "how about I steal you away after the donor dinner? Just you and me."

A warmth spreads through my chest. "Steal me, huh?"

"Yeah," he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice. "I was thinking tacos. I'll even get you churros."

I laugh, the tension easing out of my body. "Now you're speaking my language."

We fall into easy conversation after that, talking about practice and little things that don't really matter but still make me feel better. It's like... no matter how messy everything else gets, I know I've got this. Us. Them.

When we finally hang up, I feel lighter. Not fixed—nothing's ever that simple—but lighter.

I stare at my laptop again, the cursor still blinking like it's daring me to find the right words. I crack my knuckles, roll my shoulders, and take a deep breath.

Screw it. The speech doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be real.

I start typing.

Resilience isn't about being unbreakable. It's about knowing you're cracked and showing up anyway. It's about choosing to play the game, even when everything feels like it's working against you. It's not a victory lap—it's the struggle. The fight. The moment you decide that, even though everything hurts, you're going to keep going.

The words come faster now, pouring out of me like I've been holding them back for too long. I write about the team, about pushing through injuries and bad calls, about how we have to lean on each other—even when it's hard, especially when it's hard.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, I realize I'm writing about more than just lacrosse.

I'm writing about me and my guys. About how we show up for each other, even when the world is a mess. About what it means to choose each other, over and over, even when things aren't perfect. Especially when they aren't.

By the time I finish, my chest feels a little lighter. I read through the speech once more, tweak a few lines, and save the document.

It's not perfect. But it's good enough.