Title: Dylan's Story
Rating: PG-13 for themes and language
Characters: In this chapter: Dylan, Dylan's father, Kaley, Paige
Disclaimer: Not a thing belongs to me. How I wish, though.
Author's Note: This story may not be updated that frequently, seeing as I'm working on two other stories as well. I just wanted to get it out there, though. It focused on Dylan when he's younger, dealing with coming out of the closet, the stress of having a boyfriend, and more. There aren't too many Dyl-centric stories out there, so voila. Enjoy the story. :)
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The whistle blew loudly. It echoed across the ice, and in a split second, twenty guys were gliding gracefully across the ice, as fast as their skates would carry them. Each line was touched by each hand, until they were finished and panting back at the beginning. Breathing hard but still managing a smile, fourteen-year-old Dylan Michalchuk pushed his blonde curls out of his eyes. He lived for this kind of stuff.
The whistle shrieked again, and the boys took off once more. At least eight more times this pattern repeated itself. When the whistle blew for the last time, the guys were dripping with sweat, breathing heavily and irregularly, and using only their hockey sticks to hold themselves up. Dylan, however, was perked up and ready for another round. He had to be the best - people depended on him.
Instead, though, the coach yelled out, "Good job, boys. Final cuts will be posted tomorrow." The word tomorrow bounced across the frozen arena, and Dylan gave a slight shudder of excitement and nervousness. There was no doubt in his mind that he would make the team, but there was always that slight chance. He was sure, though, that he'd pushed himself harder than any of the other nineteen guys trying out.
Pushing a sweaty hand against his equally sweaty forehead, he watched the other guys file off the ice and into the locker room outside the arena. Instead of following, he flipped the hockey puck up and down with his stick.
"Aren't you coming, Dylan?" his friend Brett, who was also trying out for the hockey team, called out to him.
"Nah," Dylan replied casually. "I'm gonna stick around and play a little."
Shaking his head in wonderment, Brett only said, "Suit yourself," and joined the others in the locker room. It wasn't only that Dylan wanted to work on his slap shot, but lately he was feeling uncomfortable. He skated away from the goal a bit, and then aimed his shot and went for it. The puck whirled at the goal, full speed, towards the left, but it curved a little and landed in the goal on the right. Just the thing that would fake any goalie out.
He gave a little victory lap around the goal, and then played around a little more. After a while, he headed into the now-empty locker room. He showered, changed his clothes, and proceeded out. Outside the stadium, Dylan's father's minivan was parked. Rolling down the window as Dylan advanced, his dad gave him a dirty look.
"I thought I told you to hurry up," his dad scolded as Dylan climbed into the passenger seat.
"I did Dad, but we ran late," he lied, buckling his seatbelt over his chest and throwing his bag into the backseat.
"Then why have all the other boys come out? A good fifteen minutes ago?" He stared innocently at his dad's stern expression, and smiled quickly. If there was one good thing (other than hockey) that Dylan was terrific at, it was improvising.
"Well, actually the coach wanted to talk to me after practice. He said I was a shoo-in for the team." He hesitated as his dad's expression only faltered, unsure of whether or not to believe him. "He also asked me where I learned to play. And know what, Dad? I said from you." He flashed his pearly whites at his father.
Giving in, Mr. Michalchuk laughed as he began to drive away from his son's second home. "Yeah, yeah. I bet you did." He patted his son's back nobly, and then glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "So, how was the tryout?"
"Pretty good. I finished my laps first, and I also scored a lot. We ran tons," he replied, with a swift nod of the head.
"Way to go," he replied, beaming proudly at his only son. When they got to the house, Dylan lugged his heavy hockey bag in the house and collapsed on his couch. Within two minutes of his return home, the phone started ringing. He heard his little sister, Paige, answer the phone in her bedroom. He then heard her feet padding against the carpet, no doubt heading towards him. Groaning, he sat up.
"Dyl, phone's for you," she informed him, holding out the phone.
"Who is it?"
"Kaley." He thanked her, and then took the phone and put it up to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Hey honey," Kaley's voice came floating from the phone, and he smiled. Kaley was his best friend… and she also happened to his girlfriend. The best friend was a thing he would never doubt, but the girlfriend… he just wasn't so sure.
He didn't have the heart to break up with her; besides, if he did, that would probably end his friendship with her. That was the very last thing he wanted.
"Hey you," he smiled back into the phone. "How's it going?"
"Well, I just got back from the mall. I went with Stephanie and Kelsey," she replied. "How about you?"
"Tryouts."
"Ohh, that's right. Last one, huh?" He nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "Are you nervous?"
"Naturally."
"Well, don't be. You'll definitely make the team." Her words were soothing. He felt way better already. "You're the best thing in hockey since… Michael Jordan." He laughed loudly; though Kaley was his best friend, she knew absolutely nothing in the world of sports.
"Michael Jordan, huh?" He teased, and she giggled.
"Oh shut up. You know what I mean."
"Actually, no, I'm not so sure I do," he told her, making a slight humming noise.
"I'm trying to be the supportive girlfriend here." Girlfriend… the word alone these days made him shudder.
"You're doing a fine job," he said, despite all the awkward feelings and emotions he had.
"Good. Now, I know you haven't done that algebra assignment, so I'm letting - no, I'm ordering you to tell me goodnight, hang up that phone, and go do it," she commanded, in a serious but light tone.
"Ma'am yes ma'am," he chuckled. "Goodnight, Kaley."
"Night Dylan."
Grinning, he hung up the phone and once more stretched out on the couch, his eyes fluttering closed. Within seconds, the phone began ringing. He answered it without saying anything, because he knew exactly who it was.
"I said homework," Kaley told him, in a mockingly stern manner.
"I'm doing it!" he lied.
"Liar."
"What, do you stalk me?" Though he was kidding, he glanced out the window to make sure Kaley wasn't crouched below there in the bushes.
"Of course. Somebody's gotta be there to yank that chain when it needs a good yankin'," she laughed.
"Oh, so now I'm on a chain?"
"No, no. I stand corrected," she told him, with another giggle. "You are on a leash."
"Oh-ho, I don't think so!"
"I have you wrapped around my finger. You are so whipped."
"I'm not whipped!"
"Completely whipped," she said, grinning. His protests were halfhearted, but he did not think he was at all whipped. Heck, he wasn't even attracted to her that much. That wasn't something he'd tell anyone though, of course.
"Homework, now."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." With a sigh, he dug through his bag and emerged with his algebra book.
"Good boy," Kaley said, as though she had seen him retrieve his homework. He arched an eyebrow. "Night," she said warmly, and he smiled.
"Good night, stalker."
"I only do it 'cause I love you," she said somewhat flirtatiously, and Dylan paled. Love? Meekly, he forced a laugh. Love was one of his everyday vocabulary words - he loved hockey, and he loved apple pie. But Kaley? He could honestly say he loved her - but not in the way she would want him to. He had a feeling of platonic, best friend love for her, which he felt completely guilty of. He should have loved her, but he couldn't force himself to.
"Four-X squared plus six-Y minus the square root of…" he laughed, and she tsk-ed approvingly before hanging up on him.
Laughing slightly to himself still, he worked on his homework for a little while. He was too worn out to do much though, so after awhile he went up to his room and collapsed on his bed.
Closing his eyes, he tried to think about Kaley. She was a great girl. Soon, his thoughts drifted over to his best friend Brett. Brett playing hockey, Brett in the locker room… he snapped his eyes open before he could think anything else. Disgruntled, he turned on his side and pushed the thoughts away.
Something was wrong with him; he just didn't know what.
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A/N: Okeydoke, the chapter's over. Please review. I love reviews.
Thanks for reading!!
Rating: PG-13 for themes and language
Characters: In this chapter: Dylan, Dylan's father, Kaley, Paige
Disclaimer: Not a thing belongs to me. How I wish, though.
Author's Note: This story may not be updated that frequently, seeing as I'm working on two other stories as well. I just wanted to get it out there, though. It focused on Dylan when he's younger, dealing with coming out of the closet, the stress of having a boyfriend, and more. There aren't too many Dyl-centric stories out there, so voila. Enjoy the story. :)
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The whistle blew loudly. It echoed across the ice, and in a split second, twenty guys were gliding gracefully across the ice, as fast as their skates would carry them. Each line was touched by each hand, until they were finished and panting back at the beginning. Breathing hard but still managing a smile, fourteen-year-old Dylan Michalchuk pushed his blonde curls out of his eyes. He lived for this kind of stuff.
The whistle shrieked again, and the boys took off once more. At least eight more times this pattern repeated itself. When the whistle blew for the last time, the guys were dripping with sweat, breathing heavily and irregularly, and using only their hockey sticks to hold themselves up. Dylan, however, was perked up and ready for another round. He had to be the best - people depended on him.
Instead, though, the coach yelled out, "Good job, boys. Final cuts will be posted tomorrow." The word tomorrow bounced across the frozen arena, and Dylan gave a slight shudder of excitement and nervousness. There was no doubt in his mind that he would make the team, but there was always that slight chance. He was sure, though, that he'd pushed himself harder than any of the other nineteen guys trying out.
Pushing a sweaty hand against his equally sweaty forehead, he watched the other guys file off the ice and into the locker room outside the arena. Instead of following, he flipped the hockey puck up and down with his stick.
"Aren't you coming, Dylan?" his friend Brett, who was also trying out for the hockey team, called out to him.
"Nah," Dylan replied casually. "I'm gonna stick around and play a little."
Shaking his head in wonderment, Brett only said, "Suit yourself," and joined the others in the locker room. It wasn't only that Dylan wanted to work on his slap shot, but lately he was feeling uncomfortable. He skated away from the goal a bit, and then aimed his shot and went for it. The puck whirled at the goal, full speed, towards the left, but it curved a little and landed in the goal on the right. Just the thing that would fake any goalie out.
He gave a little victory lap around the goal, and then played around a little more. After a while, he headed into the now-empty locker room. He showered, changed his clothes, and proceeded out. Outside the stadium, Dylan's father's minivan was parked. Rolling down the window as Dylan advanced, his dad gave him a dirty look.
"I thought I told you to hurry up," his dad scolded as Dylan climbed into the passenger seat.
"I did Dad, but we ran late," he lied, buckling his seatbelt over his chest and throwing his bag into the backseat.
"Then why have all the other boys come out? A good fifteen minutes ago?" He stared innocently at his dad's stern expression, and smiled quickly. If there was one good thing (other than hockey) that Dylan was terrific at, it was improvising.
"Well, actually the coach wanted to talk to me after practice. He said I was a shoo-in for the team." He hesitated as his dad's expression only faltered, unsure of whether or not to believe him. "He also asked me where I learned to play. And know what, Dad? I said from you." He flashed his pearly whites at his father.
Giving in, Mr. Michalchuk laughed as he began to drive away from his son's second home. "Yeah, yeah. I bet you did." He patted his son's back nobly, and then glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "So, how was the tryout?"
"Pretty good. I finished my laps first, and I also scored a lot. We ran tons," he replied, with a swift nod of the head.
"Way to go," he replied, beaming proudly at his only son. When they got to the house, Dylan lugged his heavy hockey bag in the house and collapsed on his couch. Within two minutes of his return home, the phone started ringing. He heard his little sister, Paige, answer the phone in her bedroom. He then heard her feet padding against the carpet, no doubt heading towards him. Groaning, he sat up.
"Dyl, phone's for you," she informed him, holding out the phone.
"Who is it?"
"Kaley." He thanked her, and then took the phone and put it up to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Hey honey," Kaley's voice came floating from the phone, and he smiled. Kaley was his best friend… and she also happened to his girlfriend. The best friend was a thing he would never doubt, but the girlfriend… he just wasn't so sure.
He didn't have the heart to break up with her; besides, if he did, that would probably end his friendship with her. That was the very last thing he wanted.
"Hey you," he smiled back into the phone. "How's it going?"
"Well, I just got back from the mall. I went with Stephanie and Kelsey," she replied. "How about you?"
"Tryouts."
"Ohh, that's right. Last one, huh?" He nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "Are you nervous?"
"Naturally."
"Well, don't be. You'll definitely make the team." Her words were soothing. He felt way better already. "You're the best thing in hockey since… Michael Jordan." He laughed loudly; though Kaley was his best friend, she knew absolutely nothing in the world of sports.
"Michael Jordan, huh?" He teased, and she giggled.
"Oh shut up. You know what I mean."
"Actually, no, I'm not so sure I do," he told her, making a slight humming noise.
"I'm trying to be the supportive girlfriend here." Girlfriend… the word alone these days made him shudder.
"You're doing a fine job," he said, despite all the awkward feelings and emotions he had.
"Good. Now, I know you haven't done that algebra assignment, so I'm letting - no, I'm ordering you to tell me goodnight, hang up that phone, and go do it," she commanded, in a serious but light tone.
"Ma'am yes ma'am," he chuckled. "Goodnight, Kaley."
"Night Dylan."
Grinning, he hung up the phone and once more stretched out on the couch, his eyes fluttering closed. Within seconds, the phone began ringing. He answered it without saying anything, because he knew exactly who it was.
"I said homework," Kaley told him, in a mockingly stern manner.
"I'm doing it!" he lied.
"Liar."
"What, do you stalk me?" Though he was kidding, he glanced out the window to make sure Kaley wasn't crouched below there in the bushes.
"Of course. Somebody's gotta be there to yank that chain when it needs a good yankin'," she laughed.
"Oh, so now I'm on a chain?"
"No, no. I stand corrected," she told him, with another giggle. "You are on a leash."
"Oh-ho, I don't think so!"
"I have you wrapped around my finger. You are so whipped."
"I'm not whipped!"
"Completely whipped," she said, grinning. His protests were halfhearted, but he did not think he was at all whipped. Heck, he wasn't even attracted to her that much. That wasn't something he'd tell anyone though, of course.
"Homework, now."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." With a sigh, he dug through his bag and emerged with his algebra book.
"Good boy," Kaley said, as though she had seen him retrieve his homework. He arched an eyebrow. "Night," she said warmly, and he smiled.
"Good night, stalker."
"I only do it 'cause I love you," she said somewhat flirtatiously, and Dylan paled. Love? Meekly, he forced a laugh. Love was one of his everyday vocabulary words - he loved hockey, and he loved apple pie. But Kaley? He could honestly say he loved her - but not in the way she would want him to. He had a feeling of platonic, best friend love for her, which he felt completely guilty of. He should have loved her, but he couldn't force himself to.
"Four-X squared plus six-Y minus the square root of…" he laughed, and she tsk-ed approvingly before hanging up on him.
Laughing slightly to himself still, he worked on his homework for a little while. He was too worn out to do much though, so after awhile he went up to his room and collapsed on his bed.
Closing his eyes, he tried to think about Kaley. She was a great girl. Soon, his thoughts drifted over to his best friend Brett. Brett playing hockey, Brett in the locker room… he snapped his eyes open before he could think anything else. Disgruntled, he turned on his side and pushed the thoughts away.
Something was wrong with him; he just didn't know what.
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A/N: Okeydoke, the chapter's over. Please review. I love reviews.
Thanks for reading!!