Taming Dylan Winthrop

Pick

DYLAN'S POINT OF VIEW

“Again!” Coach Ryder’s voice resounded throughout the rink, causing a jolt of intensity to ripple through the whole team as

I forcefully slammed Connor Mercer against the glass. The impact was so strong that the frame shook, and I could see the discomfort etched on my teammates’ faces. Connor let out a pained groan as he crumpled onto the ice, while a few guys on the bench laughed nervously, unsure whether to find it amusing or concerning.

“Jesus Christ,” I heard Mason murmuring beside me, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Somebody’s got a murder charge waiting for them today,” he quipped, but I chose to disregard his comment entirely. Cold air stung my lungs as I skated backward, gripping my hockey stick with fierce determination. Sweat was trickling down the side of my face, pooling beneath my helmet, yet even that wasn’t enough to soothe the anger that simmered just below the surface, threatening to boil over.

“Winthrop!” Coach Ryder’s voice cut through my thoughts like a knife.

“Get your head in the game or get off my rink,” he ordered sharply, his tone laced with frustration. I let out a quiet scoff, wishing he understood that hockey was the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity lately.

I pushed my helmet off and raked a hand through my damp hair, feeling the heaviness of my responsibilities weigh down on me as I glided towards the bench. As soon as I plopped down, Mason tossed a bottle of water my way, a gesture that was both familiar and appreciated.

“You’ve been in such a terrible mood all week,” he observed casually, seemingly unfazed by my current state of agitation. I twisted the cap off the bottle with a slight grimace.

“No kidding,” I replied, sarcasm dripping from my words.

“Let me guess,” he continued, his tone playful yet probing.

“Is it your dad again?” The moment he mentioned my father, my jaw instinctively tightened. Mason immediately took note, as he always did. After knowing each other for years, he could read my emotions like an open book.

“He wants me to attend yet another business dinner tonight,” I replied, bitterness bleeding into my voice as I took a long gulp of water, hoping it would somehow quench the rising irritation inside me.

“Oof,” Mason grimaced.

“Another one?” he reiterated, incredulous.

“Apparently, I embarrassed him at the last one,” I explained, a hint of defiance in my tone. Mason snorted, unable to restrain his laughter.

“You told some senator’s son to shut the hell up,” he reminded me, a smirk playing on his lips.

“He totally deserved it,” I shot back, remembering the way the kid had been acting like he owned the place.

“You also nearly punched him,” Mason interjected, his amusement evident.

“He definitely deserved that too.” As Mason chuckled quietly beside me, I leaned back against the bench, momentarily lost in thought as I stared up at the glaring bright arena lights overhead.

Everything in my life felt like an uphill battle these days—school, hockey, the incessant pressure from the cameras, and especially, my father. Richard Winthrop was a man singularly focused on one thing: the Winthrop name.

Not whether I was truly happy; that was of no concern to him at all. Each interaction with him was another lesson in disappointment, another reminder that my worth was intrinsically tied to how I could further the family reputation and the company he had built.

In public, I was the perfect son, the ideal captain, the destined future heir. But behind closed doors? I was simply another one of his disappointments.

“Earth to Dylan,” Mason said, snapping his fingers in front of my face to pull me back to reality.

“You alive?”

“Unfortunately,” I muttered, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. He laughed lightly before stretching his arms behind his head with a lazy grin.

“You know what Blackwood needs?”

“What’s that?” I asked, feigning curiosity.

“A new scandal,” he replied with a cheeky grin. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

“There’s literally a new one every week,” I pointed out.

“True,” he conceded,

“but apparently, there’s a new scholarship student set to join us.” This revelation made me pause slightly, intrigued despite myself.

Blackwood Academy had a notorious reputation for its disdain toward scholarship students. Officially, the administration preached inclusivity and progressiveness for the sake of appearances. Yet, everyone knew the underlying truth: Blackwood was designed for the affluent, the legacy students, and those fortunate enough to wield enough money to escape any repercussions. Scholarship students were often made painfully aware that they didn’t belong.

“And?” I asked, my interest decidedly flat.

Mason’s grin widened. “People are already placing bets on how long she’ll last.”

I scoffed softly, “Probably not long. That place has a way of tearing people apart.”

Coach Ryder's sharp whistle cut through our conversation, signaling a break. The team collectively relaxed, with some players heading to the locker room while others remained on the ice to chat.

From the bleachers, a group of girls watching our practice waved at me excitedly. I glanced over, but quickly looked away, feeling a familiar flush of discomfort, as Mason chuckled at my reaction.

“You know, most guys would kill for that kind of attention,” he teased.

“Most guys are just desperate,” I shot back. One of the girls mouthed my name dramatically through the glass, but I pretended not to notice. The truth was, the thrill of such attention had lost its appeal long ago. They sought my reputation, my wealth, the Winthrop name; very few ever bothered to care about who I was underneath all that surface-level glitz, and maybe that was just fine by me.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed loudly on the bench beside me. *Dad* lit up the screen, and I stared at it for a moment, gathering my thoughts before answering.

“What?” I said, my tone sharper than intended.

“Where are you?” my father’s cold voice quizzed me immediately.

“At practice,” I replied, trying to keep my irritation in check.

“You were supposed to leave thirty minutes ago.” I could feel my jaw tightening.

“I lost track of time,” I defended, the words escaping my lips with an edge of defiance.

“That’s not an excuse.” There it was—that familiar sharp tone, the one that turned every conversation into a lecture rather than an actual discussion.

“You’ll be home in twenty minutes. The Lockwoods will be there tonight, and I expect you to behave appropriately for once.” I couldn’t help but let out a scoff of disbelief.

“Right. Because that’s all you genuinely care about,” I replied bitterly, my heart racing in response to the sudden tension.

A dangerous silence fell between us.

“Everything I do is for this family, Dylan,” he stated, his voice edging toward icy seriousness.

“No,” I replied coolly. “Everything you do is for the company.”

Instantly, I could sense his frustration through the phone as his voice hardened.

“Watch your tone.”

I rubbed my jaw tiredly, feeling the weight of our conversation pressing heavily on my shoulders.

“Don’t embarrass me tonight,” he warned, and before I could muster a response, the line went dead. Staring at my phone in disbelief, I shoved it roughly into my bag, overcome by a mix of frustration and a deep-seated need for escape.

Mason noticed my expression, his eyebrows raised with concern. “That bad?”

“Have you ever felt like you’re trapped in someone else’s life?” The words came out before I had a chance to filter them, my voice betraying more vulnerability than I intended. He frowned slightly, seemingly contemplating his response.

“That deep, huh?” he remarked after a moment, eliciting a humorless laugh from me. Sometimes it felt like I genuinely hated being Dylan Winthrop. People saw the money and assumed happiness accompanied it, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Suddenly, Coach Ryder’s whistle pierced the air again, catching me off guard. Hadn’t we just broken?

“Something urgent has come up, so we’re ending practice now,” he declared, leading the team to gather their things as they headed toward the locker rooms. I grabbed my duffel bag from the bench, feeling a mix of relief and frustration at the sudden end to practice.

“Oh,” Mason said casually as we walked toward the exit.

“I heard the scholarship girl’s from some tiny town,” he mentioned offhand. I shrugged indifferently.

“Good for her,” I replied blankly.

“Yep,” he laughed lightly.

As we made our way to the school exit, my phone buzzed again, this time with a school notification. I opened it absentmindedly, curiosity flickering within me.

**NEW SCHOLARSHIP STUDENT PROFILE**

A picture swiftly loaded onto the screen: dark hair, strikingly pretty eyes, and a nervous smile....Riele Carter. For reasons I couldn’t quite place, I found myself staring at the picture longer than I intended.

“She apparently scored higher than most of the seniors,” Mason continued, his tone both impressed and amused.

“People are already pissed.” I sighed softly before locking my phone and stuffing it back into my pocket.

“Too bad,” I muttered dismissively, glancing towards the dark hallway ahead of us with newfound interest.

“She has no idea what kind of place she’s walking into,” I remarked, a small smile forming on my lips as the thought lingered in my mind.