Page 12

CHAPTER 12

DALLAS

I f someone would’ve told me that one day I’d end up a one-woman, pussy-whipped asshole, I’d have laughed in their face. If someone would’ve told me that it would happen before I even got the girl, I’d probably have bitch slapped them. How goddamn dare you assume that I, Dallas Shaw, would ever wind up ass over tits because of a woman. The entire notion is ridiculous and offensive. At least it was a month ago. Now, here I am, half-suited up for a game, unable to function—barely able to fucking breathe—because after a week of non-stop and frankly pathetic pestering, I just got my first message from Emily. And it’s taking everything I have right now not to squeal like a giddy teenage girl.

Goldie: Good luck.

I’m grinning ear-to-ear at my phone. No doubt I look completely unhinged, but I don’t care. She texted me. She actually fucking texted me before I could go full loser and send her a reply to another imaginary message. She. Texted. Me.

“You good, man?”

I turn to see Robbie looking at me like I’ve lost my damn mind, understandably. Doing a quick check to make sure there’s no one standing around too close, I show him the message on my phone, trying to rein in what little cool I have left.

“Aw shiiiit…” Robbie chuckles, covering his mouth with a fist. “Remember what I said, brother. Be careful.” He slaps me on my back.

I wave off his concern, quickly going back to my phone.

Me: Wait. Have I caught one too many pucks to the frontal lobe, or did you actually just text me?

Goldie: Has anyone ever told you you’re so extra?

Me: I got voted most extra my senior year of high school.

Goldie: Shocked.

Me: So… does this mean you’ll be watching the game?

Goldie: I’d literally rather get a bikini wax.

Me: Not the vision I needed while wearing a cup, babe.

Goldie: I have no idea what that means.

Me: Don’t worry. You will…

Goldie: I feel like you’re being pervy.

Me: You know me too well already.

Goldie: Look, just don’t go getting hurt, okay?

Me: Aw, you care about me.

Goldie: Think what you want, but an injury really just means a lot of paperwork for me.

Me: Nah, you love me. I can feel it.

Goldie: Can you feel me rolling my eyes?

“Shaw?”

I startle from Coach Draper’s booming voice ricocheting across the locker room and drop my phone onto the floor. I crouch down to grab it, but as I stand back up on my skates, I catch his steely glare when I look over at him.

“Put your goddamn phone away! Get your head out of your ass, and finish putting your pads on,” he roars. “If anyone should be focused on the game, it should be you! Lewis is coming for you, son.”

Tuning out Coach as he continues grilling me, I turn, quickly shoving my phone back into my bag before continuing with my pads. I’m still grinning like a half-wit at the thought of Emily texting me, but I do my best to conceal my happiness, forcing a veil of determination on my face.

When Coach turns back to his board, Robbie offers me a knowing smirk, and I flash him a conspiratorial wink because game on, baby. In more ways than one.

We’re 3-0 with less than a minute left on the clock.

We’ve already won. I know it. Buffalo knows it. Our home crowd knows it.

But like hell am I letting Lewis score.

When I skated out onto the ice tonight, I didn’t even realize I’d be going for a shutout because I didn’t want to jinx myself. And, if anything, a shutout was the furthest thing from my mind. TJ Lewis is a hot shot, averaging two goals per game so far this season. Even his shots at goal are lower tonight, thanks to our defense. So far, I’ve blocked all nine of TJ’s attempts, and he is raging.

I’ve pissed Buffalo off so much with my quick reflexes and precise blocking that their third line goon cross-checked me after a save. When I realized what was happening, I quickly skated out of the crease to avoid the all-line brawl that ensued, watching the chaos unfold as I squirted water into my mouth. It’s always fun to watch the guys defend my honor. Hockey 101: don’t touch the fucking goalie.

As expected, the fight resulted in two players from each team being sent to the respective boxes, while the Buffalo goon was ejected from the game after getting aggressive with the ref for the penalty.

Now, with just under forty seconds to go, everyone is tired, but I’m not done yet. And neither is fucking Lewis.

I shuffle in the crease, watching him steal the puck away from Logan. On a breakaway, he careens up the ice at breakneck speed, dekes left, then right, then left again, narrowly avoiding Happy. When there’s nothing left between him and me, the roar throughout the arena fades, making way for nothing but the sound of my own blood pumping, hammering loudly against my ear drums.

Tracking the puck, I’ve watched enough of TJ’s game footage over the last week to anticipate his move. I push right and drop down into a butterfly, but I fuck up, and at the last second, the asshole shifts left. As if in slow motion, all I can do is watch as the puck goes sailing toward the gap. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. With a grunt, I kick my left leg out as far as my hip will allow, throwing the weight of my body with it, the puck only just hitting the very edge of my blade and rebounding right as the siren sounds.

Falling onto my back, I release a heavy breath, staring up at the cross bar, which is when I’m piled upon by Josef and Logan in the kind of celly you’d expect off the back of a Stanley Cup win.

“Save of the year, Tex!” Logan yells, his face pressed right up against my cage. “Save of the fucking year!”

I lie on the physio table, staring up at the fluorescent lights, a towel draped over my dick, still sweaty after tonight’s game. Apparently, I pulled a muscle in my groin during that last save. I was so hyped up on adrenaline, I didn’t even realize until I was following the guys down the tunnel and it was suddenly painful to walk.

Jace, our head trainer, the one with the magic hands, is rubbing me down and the pain is almost intolerable, but I breathe through it, still on a high after my shutout. I’m the first goalie of the season to score a shutout against TJ Lewis. Robbie even came in to see me after press, telling me they’re already claiming it one of the best saves of the last few seasons. Ha. Take that, online trolls who called me nothing but a pretty boy with a shit C-cut.

“Fuck!” I shout out when Jace goes deep.

“Sorry, man,” he murmurs, unrelenting with the pressure.

“What are we looking at, Jace?”

Coach McManus, goaltender coach and all-round thorn in my side, walks into the treatment room and stands next to Jace, looking down at me with a furrowed brow, his arms folded over his chest.

“I don’t think it’s anything too serious, but Doc’s scheduled an MRI first thing in the morning to double check,” Jace says. “Just rest, hot and cold therapy through the night, and tomorrow I’ll do some more work on the area.”

“You hear that, Tex?” McManus nudges me, the look in his eyes knowing as he repeats firmly, “ Rest .” He knows me too well. At least, he knows the old me too well. The old me who’d promise to rest, when really, an hour later, he’d be out in a bar, searching for a hottie to go home with for a night of anything but rest. Well, I’m a changed man, McManus.

I flash him a grin and hold up three fingers. “Scout’s honor, Coach.”

“Yeah, right,” he mutters with an indulgent roll of his eyes, turning and walking out.

I glance up at Jace as he shakes his head, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he continues rubbing me down. And it kind of pisses me off that everyone on the team has the same opinion of me. I used to wear my playboy title like a badge of honor, but now? Now, not so much. And I suddenly feel the need to prove that I’m no longer the league’s biggest man-whore—to the team, to the fans, to the league, but mostly, to a certain blonde who has unknowingly turned me into the pussy-whipped, one-woman asshole I never thought I’d be.