Lover Boy | Dean Di Laurentis
Based heavily on Stephan Kalyan talking about getting into the head space of playing a playboy was hard because he’s been in a relationship for most of his adult life
dean di laurentis x reader
The smell of stale beer, expensive cologne, and hockey gear was practically a permanent fixture at the Briar hockey house.
Hannah Wells sat on the edge of the plush leather sofa, clutching a red solo cup and trying to process the absolute whirlwind that was her life.
She was a junior, the exact same age and grade as the guys in this house, but up until a few weeks ago, she had existed in an entirely different universe. Her world was sheet music, quiet library corners, and trying to survive her classes. Their world was stadium lights, roaring crowds, and campus worship.
But now, thanks to a very specific, mutually beneficial arrangement, she was officially in a fake relationship with Garrett Graham. The captain of the hockey team.
As Garrett threw an arm over the back of the couch, laughing at something Logan said, Hannah looked around the room. Because she hadn't grown up in their loop or run in their circles for the last three years, she was just starting to get to know this tight-knit group of elite athletes. She was learning that campus rumors rarely matched reality.
Take Garrett, for instance—arrogant on the surface, but surprisingly sweet and protective when they were alone. Logan was a chaotic charmer, and Tucker was the quiet, southern gentleman who actually knew how to cook.
And then… there was Dean Di Laurentis.
Dean was currently leaned against the kitchen island, a smirk playing on his lips as he talked to a group of girls. He was devastatingly handsome, draped in designer clothes that cost more than Hannah’s tuition, and possessed a natural, effortless flirtatiousness that practically radiated off him.
Every time he winked, chuckled, or leaned in to whisper something, the girls around him practically melted into puddles.
Classic playboy, Hannah thought, making a mental note to keep her guard up around him. For the past three years, she had heard the hushed whispers in the lecture halls about the wealthy, gorgeous Di Laurentis. He just had "heartbreaker" written all over his face.
"Hey, Earth to Wellsy," Garrett murmured, nudging her knee with his. "What's going on in that head of yours? You look like you're analyzing a crime scene."
"Just observing," Hannah said, tilting her head toward the kitchen and taking a sip of her drink. "Does Dean ever stop? I feel like I'm watching a national geographic documentary on mating rituals. How do you guys live with a guy who constantly has a rotating door of girls?"
Garrett blinked, looked over at Dean, and then burst into a loud, booming laugh that caught Logan’s attention from across the coffee table.
"What's so funny, G?" Logan asked, wandering over with a bowl of pretzels.
"Hannah thinks Dean is trying to pull," Garrett chuckled, shaking his head. "She thinks he's a playboy."
Logan let out a dramatic gasp, dropping a pretzel back into the bowl and clutching his chest. "Oh, precious Hannah. No. I mean, I get why you'd think that. The hair, the clothes, the fact that he looks like he escaped a high-fashion magazine. But Dean? A playboy? Absolutely not. He’s been thoroughly, completely off the market since he was sixteen years old."
Hannah’s jaw dropped slightly. She looked back at Dean, then at Logan, then at Garrett. "Wait. Are you guys messing with me? Serious? But look at him! He's literally leaning his entire body weight against that girl's shoulder right now."
"That's just his default setting," Tucker chimed in, walking past the couch and grabbing a fresh beer from the fridge. "He's naturally flirty. It's an illness, really. The boy talks to a wall and the wall thinks it has a chance. But he is fiercely, terrifyingly loyal. He only has eyes for one person."
"If he's taken, why does everyone on campus think he's single?" Hannah asked, genuinely baffled. "I’ve heard girls in my music theory class talk about trying to get his attention at parties."
"Because he doesn't broadcast his personal life to the Briar puck bunnies," Garrett explained, his tone softening a bit. "And because she doesn't go here. They've been long-distance since freshman year. It’s hard, but they make it work. Speak of the devil..."
Right on cue, the heavy front door of the hockey house swung open. The noisy chatter of the party, the bass booming from the speakers, and the general chaos of the room seemed to fade into the background as a girl walked in, shaking out her hair from the crisp Massachusetts air.
You walked into the Briar house, immediately feeling the warmth of the indoor heating hit your face. You loved your school, but coming to the hockey house always felt like a different kind of sanctuary. You didn’t even make it three steps past the threshold before a blur intercepted you.
Dean’s face lit up in a way that completely transformed his usual smirk into a bright, genuine, breathtaking smile. He caught you by the waist, lifting you right off your feet and spinning you around as if you hadn't just seen each other a few days prior.
"Look who finally graced us with her presence," Dean murmured into your hair, before setting you down and pulling you into a deep, lingering kiss.
He didn't care about the crowded room, the girls he had just been talking to, or the guys shouting jeers from the couch. In that second, the entire room ceased to exist for him. "I missed you."
"Dean, I saw you on Tuesday," you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck and adjusting to the sudden warmth of the house.
"Tuesday was a lifetime ago," he replied smoothly, his eyes crinkling with affection. He kept an arm firmly hooked around your waist, pulling you flush against his side as he turned back to the room, entirely unwilling to let go of you.
Hannah watched the entire interaction, completely stunned. For three years, she had held a completely false perception of this guy.
The girl—you—didn't look like the typical girls who frequented these parties. You looked incredibly sharp, wearing a sleek jacket, your posture perfect, and carrying an aura of quiet confidence that instantly commanded respect without you even trying.
"Hannah, meet the real boss of this house," Garrett introduced as Dean led you over to the living room setup. "Dean’s high school sweetheart."
"Hi, Hannah! It is so nice to finally meet you," you smiled warmly, offering a hand. "Garrett has told us a little bit about you. Don't believe anything he or Logan tells you, by the way. Most of it is exaggerated hockey locker room nonsense."
"Hey! I am a teller of truths and a romantic at heart," Logan protested, throwing a pretzel at Dean, who caught it effortlessly with his free hand.
"Nice to meet you," Hannah said, still trying to reconcile the image of Dean the Campus Flirt with Dean the Devoted Boyfriend. "So, you're a junior too? But you don't go to Briar?"
"No, she's the resident genius," Dean bragged proudly, kissing the side of your head. He squeezed your waist, a look of pure adoration on his face that Hannah had never seen on him before. "She goes to Harvard. Just a quick drive down the road, which means I get to kidnap her every weekend."
"More like I come over here to escape the library and make sure you're eating something other than protein powder and frozen pizza," you countered, teasingly tapping his nose. "Harvard's midterm week is brutal. I needed a break before my brain entirely melted."
As the night went on and the party wound down, the crowd thinned out until it was just the inner circle hanging out. The music was turned down to a low hum, and the atmosphere became quiet and comfortable. Hannah found herself sitting at the kitchen island, pouring a glass of water, trying to process everything she was learning about this group.
You walked over to grab a soda from the fridge, stretching your arms slightly.
"So," Hannah started, a small, intrigued smile on her face. "Harvard? That's seriously impressive. No wonder Dean looks like he won the lottery every time he looks at you."
"Thanks," you smiled, leaning against the counter next to her. "It’s a lot of work, but I love it. Plus, being so close to Briar is a lifesaver. I don't think Dean would survive a true long-distance relationship. For all his tough hockey exterior, he's incredibly clingy."
"I have to admit," Hannah said honestly, lowering her voice a bit so the guys wouldn't hear from the living room. "I’m the same age as you guys, but I've always been so completely out of the hockey loop. I just assumed... well, everyone on campus talks about Dean like he's this legendary playboy. I totally pegged him for a heartbreaker when I walked in tonight."
You let out a soft, genuine laugh, looking over at the living room. Dean was currently engaged in a heated debate with Logan and Garrett about a specific NHL playoff game, gesturing wildly. But the beautiful thing about Dean was that even in the middle of a sentence, his eyes instantly flicked to the kitchen the moment he heard your laugh. He gave you a quick, reassuring wink across the room, ensuring you were okay, before turning back to the boys.
"Oh, I know the rumors," you told Hannah, your voice softening with genuine warmth and zero trace of jealousy. "Dean is a natural flirt. It's just his factory setting. He flirts with the cashier at the grocery store, he flirts with the GPS, he probably flirts with his professors without realizing it. It’s just his personality—he loves attention, he loves people, and he loves making people smile. But when it comes to his heart? He's a one-woman man. He's been my best friend and my biggest protector since we were juniors in high school. I've never had to doubt him for a single second, no matter what campus gossip says."
Hannah looked from you to Dean, seeing the absolute, unwavering adoration in his eyes. For all his flashy clothes, smooth talking, and confidence, Dean Di Laurentis was completely anchored by you.
"That's really amazing," Hannah said, feeling a pang of genuine happiness for you—and maybe a little bit of envy. Here she was, entangled in a complicated, stressful fake-dating scheme with Garrett to get another guy's attention, while Dean and you had something so profoundly real and steady right in the middle of the campus chaos. It made her realize how much she had misjudged the people in this house.
Just then, Dean broke away from the guys, practically jogging over to the kitchen as if he couldn't stand being away from you for more than twenty minutes. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder and looking at Hannah with a playful grin.
"What are we gossiping about? Is it me? Tell me it's me. I love being the center of attention," Dean pleaded, his tone light and teasing.
"We were just talking about how lucky I am to have an amazing boyfriend like you," you lied smoothly, tilting your head up to kiss his jaw line.
Dean’s smirk instantly softened into something incredibly tender, his eyes darkening with affection as he looked down at you. "Damn right you are. I'm the lucky one. Now come back to the couch, Y/N. Logan is losing the hockey argument and I need my brilliant girlfriend there to witness my absolute intellectual victory."
As Dean led you away, his hand securely locked in yours, Hannah couldn't help but smile into her glass of water. Briar University was full of surprises, and as she navigated her own strange journey with Garrett, she was glad to know that true loyalty existed exactly where she least expected to find it.
The living room had transformed from a chaotic frat party into a quiet, post-game wind-down. The air was still thick with the scent of cheap beer and expensive cologne, but the heavy bass had been replaced by the low hum of the television playing NHL highlights in the background.
You let Dean pull you back toward the oversized sectional, sinking into the cushions right beside him. The second you were seated, Dean shifted, throwing his long legs over the coffee table and pulling you flush against his side. His arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, his fingers idly playing with the hem of your shirt. It was an automatic reflex for him; whenever you were in the same room, he needed to be touching you.
"Alright, Harvard," Logan said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Settle a debate. Garrett claims that the Bruins’ power play strategy last night was flawless. I say it was entirely predictable and they got lucky. What’s the verdict?"
You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against Dean’s chest. "Are you asking me because you genuinely want my sports analysis, Logan, or because you know Dean will agree with whatever I say?"
"A little bit of both," Logan admitted with a grin.
"Don't bring her into your losing arguments, Huntzberger," Garrett chimed in from the other end of the couch, nudging Hannah’s foot with his own. Hannah was watching the exchange with rapt attention, her eyes darting between you and Dean. She still looked entirely fascinated by the dynamic—clearly still trying to reconcile the campus myth of Dean Di Laurentis with the fiercely devoted boy sitting in front of her.
"For the record," you said, tilting your head up to look at Garrett, "the Bruins were predictable. They relied too heavily on the drop pass at the blue line. If the defense had been faster on the backcheck, they would’ve been picked apart."
Dean let out a loud, triumphant bark of laughter, his chest vibrating against your back. "Ha! What did I tell you? Genius. Absolutely brilliant. That’s my girl." He leaned down, planting a fierce, proud kiss on your cheek, making you laugh and try to push him away.
"You're only cheering because she agreed with you," Garrett grumbled, though there was a smirk playing on his lips.
"I cheer because she's always right," Dean corrected smoothly, his voice dropping into that naturally confident, slightly arrogant tone he always used. But as he looked down at you, the arrogance completely melted away, replaced by a quiet warmth. "You want a drink? Water? A soda? I can get you whatever you want."
"I'm good, Dean. Just trying to relax," you murmured, reaching up to run your fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He practically purred at the contact, leaning into your touch and closing his eyes for a brief second.
Hannah watched this interaction, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She leaned over to Garrett, lowering her voice so only he could hear. "He’s like a totally different person around her."
Garrett looked over at Dean and you, his expression softening with a rare look of genuine respect. "Yeah, well. she’s his anchor. Dean’s got a lot of energy, a lot of flash. He likes the finer things in life, and he likes being noticed. But with her? He doesn't have to put on a show. She knows exactly who he is, and he'd burn the world down before he ever did anything to jeopardize what they have."
Hannah nodded slowly, absorbing the information. It was an eye-opening realization. Coming into this house, she had assumed the hockey team was a monolith of arrogant, untouchable playboys. But looking at Garrett—who was currently being surprisingly attentive to her—and looking at Dean, who was practically worshiping the ground you walked on, she realized how wrong she had been.
"Hey," Hannah called out across the space, wanting to pull you back into the conversation. "How do you handle the drive back and forth? Harvard to Briar isn't terrible, but with a Harvard workload, it's got to be exhausting."
You shifted slightly, resting your chin on Dean's shoulder. "Honestly, the drive is my decompression time. But usually, Dean's the one making the trip. He’ll drive down to Cambridge just to take me out to dinner for an hour before driving all the way back for morning practice."
"Wait, seriously?" Hannah asked, her eyebrows shooting up. She looked at Dean. "You drive two hours total just for a one-hour dinner?"
"I'd drive ten hours just to see her for five minutes, Wellsy," Dean said, his tone incredibly casual, as if he were stating a basic fact of the universe rather than an act of grand romance.
He winked at Hannah. "Plus, the restaurants near Harvard are way better than the greasy spoons around here. I get to dress up, show off my gorgeous girlfriend, and eat good food. It’s a win-win."
"He's omitting the part where he once showed up at my dorm at 2:00 AM during finals week just because I sounded stressed on the phone," you added, giving Dean a pointed look. "He brought three bags of takeout and a giant teddy bear that took up half my room."
"It was a tactical strike against your anxiety," Dean defended himself, a boyish grin spreading across his face. "And it worked. You aced that exam."
"Because I was terrified you'd show up with a marching band next time," you teased, turning around in his lap to face him fully.
Dean’s hands instantly found your waist, holding you steady. The playful banter of the room seemed to fade into the background as he looked at you, his eyes incredibly dark and focused. "I would have," he whispered, entirely serious. "If it meant making you smile."
You felt a familiar warmth bloom in your chest, reaching up to cup his jaw. For all the years you had been together, the intensity of Dean's devotion never failed to take your breath away. He was a flirt, a tease, and a total show-off to the rest of the world, but his heart belonged exclusively to you.
Across the room, Hannah watched the two of you, a profound sense of clarity washing over her. As she navigated her own chaotic, fake-dating journey with Garrett, seeing you and Dean gave her a glimpse of what real, unshakeable loyalty actually looked like.
And for the first time since she had walked into the Briar hockey house, she realized that beneath all the rumors and the campus hype, these boys were capable of loving fiercely.
The party had entirely cleared out by the time the clock bled past two in the morning. Logan and Tucker had disappeared upstairs to their respective rooms, and Garrett had walked Hannah out to her car, leaving the downstairs of the hockey house steeped in a rare, heavy quiet.
The low hum of the television screen cast flickering shadows across the living room, but the real heat was concentrated on the oversized sectional.
The moment the front door clicked shut behind Garrett, Dean’s entire demeanor shifted. The playful, casual banter he’d been maintaining for the group completely vanished, replaced by an intense, dark focus that was entirely centered on you.
"Finally," he growled low in his throat, his hands sliding up from your waist to grip your hips, pulling you flush against his lap so you were straddling him.
You let out a soft gasp at the sudden movement, your hands automatically flying to his broad shoulders for balance. "Dean, the guys are still—"
"The guys are asleep, and Garrett's outside," Dean interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, thick and raspy. His eyes raked over your face, heavy-lidded and burning with a hunger he’d been suppressing all night. "Do you have any idea what it was like sitting next to you for three hours, watching you laugh, hearing you talk to Hannah, and not being able to do this?"
Before you could answer, his hand cupped the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your head up and brought his mouth down on yours.
The kiss wasn't the sweet, reassuring pecks he’d given you in front of the team.
This was demanding, possessive, and thick with the pent-up frustration of a week spent apart. His tongue parted your lips effortlessly, deepening the kiss until your breath hitched in your chest. You whimpered into his mouth, the sound completely undoing him. Dean let out a low groan, his grip tightening on your hips, pulling you so tightly against him that you could feel the hard, rigid line of his desire pressing against your thigh through his jeans.
He broke the kiss just long enough to trail his lips down your jawline, his breathing ragged against your skin. His mouth found the sensitive spot right beneath your ear, biting down gently enough to make you shiver, then soothing it with the hot stroke of his tongue.
"Dean," you breathed, your fingers clutching the fabric of his Briar hockey jersey, tugging at it desperately. "We need to go upstairs."
"Not yet," he muttered against your throat, his hands sliding up beneath the hem of your shirt, his warm, calloused palms making direct contact with your bare skin. You arched into his touch, your heart hammering against your ribs. He traced the curve of your waist, his thumbs brushing the lower edge of your ribs, sending jolts of electricity straight down your spine. "I’ve been thinking about this all day in practice. Every single drill, all I could think about was getting you back to this house."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, intense, and completely consumed by you. There was no trace of the arrogant, smirking campus flirt that Briar University thought they knew.
This was the raw, unyielding version of Dean Di Laurentis that belonged entirely to you.
"You drive me completely crazy, Y/N," he whispered, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your hip, though his voice was entirely tight with restraint. "Every guy at Harvard looking at you, and all I can do is sit over here and wait for the weekend."
"You know I don't care about any of them," you whispered back, leaning down to press your lips to the center of his chest, right over his racing heartbeat. "I only want you."
A dark, possessive smirk finally cut through his expression, his chest swelling with pride. "Good. Because I'm not sharing."
In one swift, athletic movement, Dean slid his arms under your thighs and back, lifting you effortlessly off his lap as he stood up from the couch. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face in his neck as he carried you down the dimly lit hallway toward his bedroom, his grip unbreakable and his intentions completely clear.
Dean didn’t even bother turning on the lights when he nudged his bedroom door open with his shoulder, shutting it behind you with a firm, decisive click of his heel. The room was bathed in the cool, silver glow of the moonlight cutting through his window, casting long shadows across the organized chaos of his space.
He didn't make it two steps toward the bed before he pinned you against the heavy wood of the door, the impact solid but careful. Your back flushed against the surface, and you let out a breathless laugh that was instantly cut short when Dean crowded his entire body weight against yours.
His hands slid down from your thighs, his palms flattening against the wood on either side of your head. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving against your breasts, the scent of him—expensive cedar wood, mint, and pure heat—completely enveloping you.
"Dean," you gasped, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jersey again.
"I'm losing my mind, Y/N. Seriously," he murmured, his voice a rough, gravelly whisper. He leaned in, his lips brushing yours with agonizing slowness, teasing the seam of your mouth until you parted your lips for him. When you did, he didn't hold back. The kiss was deep, wet, and utterly consuming, his tongue tangling with yours in a rhythm that made your knees go weak. Thank God his hands migrated down to your waist, gripping you tightly enough to bruise, holding you up against the door.
You reached down, your fingers finding the hem of his heavy hockey jersey, and tugged it upward. "Take it off," you demanded against his lips.
Dean broke the kiss with a low growl, stripping the jersey over his head in one fluid, impatient motion and tossing it blindly into the darkness of the room. The sight of his bare chest—the sharp lines of his collarbone, the hard, defined muscle of his abs, and the faint scars from years on the ice—made your throat go completely dry. He was beautiful, and he was entirely yours.
Before you could fully appreciate the view, Dean's hands were back on you, working at the buttons of your shirt with a frantic energy that was entirely uncharacteristic of his usual smooth, calculated demeanor. When the fabric parted, his breath hitched. He mapping out every inch of your exposed skin with his hands, his thumbs dragging over the lace of your bra, making your hips unconsciously arch upward into his.
"You are so beautiful," he rasped, his eyes burning as he looked down at you in the moonlight. "It kills me. Every single day I'm stuck at Briar, it kills me."
He bent his head, his mouth dropping down to track a path of burning kisses from your jawline, down the column of your throat, to the sensitive valley between your collarbones. You threw your head back against the door, a loud, uninhibited moan escaping your lips as his teeth gently grazed the soft skin of your shoulder.
"Dean, please," you whimpered, your fingers burying themselves into his thick, soft hair, pulling him closer. Your thighs clamped tightly around his hips again, begging for a friction that was driving you both to the edge.
He let out a ragged breath, his hands sliding down to cup the undersides of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly once more. He carried you the short distance to his bed, tumbling both of you down onto the mattress. The cool sheets offered a brief shock of relief against your overheated skin, but it was immediately incinerated when Dean crawled over you, pinning your wrists gently beside your head.
He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling, his gaze so fiercely loyal and completely possessive it made your heart skip a beat.
"You're mine," he whispered, a stark, undeniable promise as his hips settled heavily into the cradle of yours. "Tell me you're mine, Y/N."
"Always," you breathed, pulling your hands free to wrap them tightly around his neck, pulling him down to finish what he started. "Only yours, Dean."
The mattress dipped under his weight as Dean shifted, freeing one of his hands from your wrist to trace the line of your jaw, his thumb wiping away a bead of sweat from your temple. His touch was suddenly a striking contrast—gentle, almost reverent, even while the rest of his body burned against yours with an undeniable, heavy urgency.
"Always," he repeated against your lips, the word sounding like a vow. "Good."
He didn't give you another second to breathe. His mouth claimed yours again, harder this time, demanding and deep. The heat between you was absolute, a fuse completely lit after days of forced distance. You hooked your legs around his waist, pulling him as close as physically possible, feeling the rigid tension in his thighs and the muscle of his back flexing beneath your fingertips. Your hands mapped the familiar expanse of his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he rocked his hips forward, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat.
Every point of contact was electric. Dean’s hands migrated down to your hips, his fingers digging in to guide your movements, establishing a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm that had your head spinning. You arched into him, a soft, broken sound escaping your lips that went straight to his head.
He broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His teeth nipped at the sensitive skin right where your neck met your shoulder, sending a violent wave of shivers straight down your spine.
"Y/N... God, you're perfect," he muttered, his voice entirely wrecked. The suave, unflappable Dean Di Laurentis was completely gone, reduced to a man entirely unraveled by the girl in his arms. He lifted himself up slightly on his forearms, his eyes locking onto yours in the dim moonlight. The intensity in his gaze was staggering—fierce, unyielding, and completely consumed by you.
The friction was building, a tight, coil of heat pulling tighter and tighter in the center of your chest. You gripped his arms, your eyes closing as the sensation threatened to overwhelm you.
"Look at me," Dean commanded softly, his voice a raspy plea.
You opened your eyes, meeting his dark, focused gaze just as he drove into you again, harder, matching his pace to the frantic beating of your heart. Seeing the absolute adoration and raw desire written all over his face pushed you entirely over the edge. A loud, breathless cry escaped you as the tension shattered, a violent rush of pleasure rippling through your entire body.
Hearing your release was the final thread for Dean. His grip on your hips tightened, his jaw clenching as he let out a low, rough shout, burying his face in your hair as his own climax hit him, hard and heavy. He held you tightly, pressing his weight into you as the aftershocks ran their course, his heart hammering wildly against your ribs like a trapped bird.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized breathing of the two of you.
Slowly, carefully, Dean rolled to the side, taking you with him so you were tucked securely against his chest. He pulled the thick comforter up over your bare shoulders, shielding you both from the cool draft of the room. His arm stayed wrapped around your waist, his hand resting flat against your stomach, pulling you so close there was no space left between you.
He kissed the crown of your head, his breathing finally beginning to slow down.
"I'm never letting you go back to Cambridge," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with sleep and exhaustion, but entirely serious.
You let out a weak, content laugh, resting your hand over his. "You have to. I have an exam on Monday."
"I'll buy the university," he mumbled, a classic, ridiculous Di Laurentis statement that made your heart swell. He squeezed your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. "Whatever it takes to keep you right here."
You smiled into the dark, closing your eyes as the warmth of his body completely enveloped you. Outside his door, Briar University could think whatever they wanted about the flashy, flirty hockey player. But in the quiet of his room, you knew the absolute truth—Dean Di Laurentis was yours, entirely and completely, and he wasn't going anywhere.
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