Page 31

CHAPTER 31

DALLAS

T his has officially been our worst away series so far this season. Three back-to-back games. Three straight losses. Three steps closer to fucking up our dreams of making the playoffs.

On Tuesday, we played Miami and lost 3-1. Last night, we played Tennessee and lost 4-3. And tonight, we lost against North Carolina 2-0, and they had two of their better players off due to injuries.

The last thing we should be doing right now is sitting in a bar in downtown Charlotte, drinking away our sorrows. And yet here we are, hiding out in a booth tucked away in the back, sinking beers like Coach isn’t going to kick our asses the second we get back to New York tomorrow.

Robbie, being the only sober one among us, tries to be the voice of reason. “We didn’t play terribly. At the end of the day, the other teams played better. You win some; you lose some.”

Happy spears him with a can-you-not look.

“Profound, man. You should start your own motivational t-shirt line…” Logan mutters, rolling his eyes as he takes a sip of his beer.

Robbie shrugs his shoulders, clearly at a loss .

I tug on the brim of my Stetson, shielding my face as I look down, drawing rings of condensation on the table with my beer bottle. This is the worst feeling. Like a heaviness that won’t subside. Like there’s something sitting on my chest and I can’t quite catch a breath. I take a sip of my beer, but it does little to help. And I’m not an idiot. I know this isn’t only about the game we just played or the two games before it. If I’m being honest, I’ve been feeling this way ever since I got off the phone with Emily on Monday night.

I still can’t believe how that FaceTime went from teaching her how to make herself squirt and coming harder than I’ve ever come before, to then Emily telling me she’s going to Andy’s house for dinner, with Jenn’s fucking brother. For some sort of romantic double fucking date. What the fuck? I’ve tried not thinking about it, because every time I do, like right now, it makes me so angry. I want to punch my fist through a wall. I feel like I wasn’t fully able to get my head in the game because it’s been hanging over me all week. It’s not Emily’s fault. This is all Andy. I’m so fucking pissed at him right now.

“Robbie’s right,” I mutter, tipping my hat back and looking at the guys around the table. “We just need to put this series behind us and focus on the next few games leading up to the holiday break. If we can win those, losing these points shouldn’t hurt us too much.” I shrug a shoulder, finishing the rest of my beer in one go.

“Last drinks?” I ask the guys as I go to move out of the booth.

Logan sighs, nodding once.

Happy tips back the rest of his beer and nods.

I slide out of the booth and snake my way through the crowd, sidling up to the bar. The bartender points at me, indicating that he’s got me up next, and I relax back a little, using the moment to look out over the busy venue.

It’s a typical southern joint. Framed sports memorabilia hung up on the walls. A collection of mounted stag heads above the bar. Multiple TVs set up and playing all different sports. A jukebox in the front playing Morgan Wallen. My kind of place.

“Same again, pal?”

I turn back to see the bartender right there, and I nod, watching as he goes about pouring the beers.

“Well, well, well,” a deep voice laced with disdain booms from over my shoulder. “If it isn’t the NHL’s sexiest goalie.”

Feeling a body press up behind me, far too close for comfort, I stiffen, spinning around to see North Carolina’s center, Charlie Bradman, standing right there, arms folded across his chest, smirk menacing as he stares me down.

His lackies crowd behind him, trying to look intimidating, and it’s almost laughable. What is this? The Outsiders ? Am I on their turf ? Are they ready to rumble ? Rolling my eyes, I shake my head, turning back to the counter.

“That’s about all he’s good at,” one of the other guys says with a derisive snort. “Lookin’ pretty.”

“Sure as hell can’t stop a fuckin’ puck,” someone scoffs.

As goaltender for the worst team in the NHL for the last two years running, I’m no stranger to chirping, on and off the ice. And up until we started winning this season, wherever I went, if there were any hockey fans around, you can bet your ass I was on the receiving end of some smart mouth bullshit all while just trying to go about my own business. Because of that, my skin is pretty thick. As a professional athlete, it’s kind of a prerequisite. But tonight is different. Tonight, I can feel every word, and it’s visceral. Affecting me in a way words never have.

The benefit of being a goalie is that you have an entire team of guys who have your back and will fight for you so that you don’t have to. And while I can fight, I don’t like it. I’ve never been a fighter. I’m not an angry person. But with the way my jaw is clenching, my hands balling into fists… these assholes are about to face the full wrath of a pissed off Dallas Shaw. I hope they’ve got dental insurance.

Tipping my hat back, I turn around to face them, standing up to my full height because, yes, I’ve got a good few inches over Charlie Bradman. Guy’s a good skater, but he’s barely five-ten. Not that I care, but he’s made it public knowledge that he suffers from small man syndrome. There’re memes circulating about the guy and his Napoleon complex.

Stepping up so we’re toe-to-toe, I look down my nose at him. “You got a problem, my guy?”

Charlie cackles like a hyena, looking around like he’s confused.

I just keep staring at him. Waiting for whatever it is we’re about to get into.

“Yeah, I do got a problem,” he sneers, getting in so close I can feel his breath on my chin. “I don’t like losers in my bar.”

I rub my chin, concealing my smirk behind my hand, looking over my shoulder at the bartender. “Excuse me, sir… does the guy behind me”—I thumb in Charlie’s direction—“own this place?”

Clearly confused, the bartender glances from me to Charlie and back again. “Nah, the guy who owns this place is eighty-seven, and he lives in the apartment upstairs.”

Turning back to Charlie, I arch a brow.

“You think you’re funny, Shaw?” Charlie scoffs. “Showing your face around here after we kicked your ass?”

I hold my hands up in surrender. “Congratulations. You won. No one is disputing that.”

“Three beers and a coke,” the bartender says, pulling my attention back to him.

I toss some money onto the counter and grab the tray of drinks, winking as I walk past Charlie and his minions and head back to our booth where Robbie, Logan, and Happy are all watching on, positioned to jump up at any moment.

“We’re playing Detroit on Saturday,” Charlie says loud enough for me to hear.

It’s his tone that causes me to stop dead in my tracks, the skin at the back of my neck prickling, because I think I know what he’s about to say, and I pray to whatever God may or may not exist that he doesn’t—for his fucking sake.

“I’ll be sure to stop in and say hey to your sister.”

I can’t believe he fucking went there. What is it with small men having all the goddamn audacity? Closing my eyes, I steel myself as best as I can, as Robbie, Logan, and Happy jump up from the booth.

“It’s not worth it man,” Robbie warns.

I hand him the tray.

Turning, I take a steady step back toward Charlie and his goons, ducking down and cupping a hand around my ear. “What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you all the way up here, little guy.”

Charlie’s jaw clenches so tight, I see it tic.

“I said,” he begins, slowly, annunciating each word. “I’ll stop by Ann Arbor when we’re in Detroit this week. Pay your sister a visit.” His slimy grin is more than a little punchable.

“Don’t do it,” Robbie hisses next to me.

I clench my fist, cracking my knuckles. But just as I’m about to rear my arm back to get in a good swing, I’m shoved from behind.

“I’ll fuckin’ do it,” Logan mutters, pushing past me and launching at Charlie so fast, the dude doesn’t even see him coming.

I watch, stunned, as Logan’s fist collides with Charlie’s jaw with such force, the crack of his teeth can be heard over the song playing through the bar.

“Fuck me.” Robbie sighs.

Happy steps up to Charlie’s buddies, pushes up the sleeves of his hoodie and grinning in that menacing way that’s just so Happy. He flips his cap backwards and looks from each guy to the next. “So, who’s next, fellas?”

“There ain’t no fightin’ in my bar!”

The music comes to a sudden stop and the crowd parts, making way for a crooked old man hobbling out from behind the bar with a walking cane, a baseball bat clamped under his arm. The bar owner, I presume.

The old man makes his way over, looking from Charlie still crouched over, crying over his jaw, to Logan standing in front of me like my own personal bodyguard.

“You need ice for that?” The man juts his whiskered chin, indicating the hand Logan is currently nursing.

Logan shakes his head, shrugging a shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

“Maybe y’all should get the hell outta here.” The old man arches a bushy brow.

“Yes, sir.” Logan nods.

We make quick work of collecting our shit from the table, shoving everything into our pockets and hightailing it out of there before someone calls the cops, or worse, starts filming.

The wind is cool as we make it out onto the street, but thankfully it’s relatively quiet, a few people smoking, a couple people waiting on the curb for a cab. We turn left and break out into a slow jog as we continue up the sidewalk and around the corner.

“Did you see that asshole’s face!” Happy roars with laughter. “Dude went down like a sack of potatoes. I swear he was fucking crying. Tears and everything!”

Logan powers off ahead with Happy running after him, but Robbie and I stay back a little, Robbie glancing over his shoulder every so often, checking that no one’s following us.

“What the hell was that about?” he asks after a few moments. “You were about to pound that guy.”

“Fuck yeah, I was.” I nod once, jaw tight as I think about the smarmy look in that fucker’s eye when he mentioned my sister.

“That’s not like you, Tex. Aside from sparring in the gym and fighting on the ice, have you ever actually punched anyone?”

“No,” is all I say.

I can feel him watching me, see him from my periphery, and I glance at him. “What?”

“You haven’t been yourself all week,” he says. “What’s up? ”

I consider not saying anything. Keeping shit to myself. But Robbie’s right. I haven’t been myself all week. And I know exactly what’s wrong, I just don’t know how to deal with it. So, over the course of the five-minute walk back to our hotel, I tell him everything. The watered-down version, of course, because Momma raised a gentleman after all.

Logan and Happy continue inside the lobby, but I stop Robbie when we get to the hotel, looking down at him hoping that, somehow, he has all the answers.

“I don’t know what to do, man.” I remove my hat, raking my fingers through my hair. “I can’t sleep. I can’t focus. All I keep thinking about is her. I want her more than I want air.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.”

Robbie’s eyes flit between mine as an annoying smirk slowly starts to claim his mouth, a smirk he doesn’t even try to hide.

My brows knit together in annoyance. “What is possibly funny right now?”

“Tex,” he says with a laugh, reaching out and gripping my shoulders to steady me with a serious look. “I’m not gonna hold your hand when I tell you this, but son, you’re in love.”

I gape at him like he’s just grown another head.

He smirks like a smug asshole.

I scoff. “You think I don’t know that!”

Robbie balks, his eyes widening.

“I’ve been in love with her since the moment I saw her,” I say, as if it’s obvious. “But what do I do ?” I emphasize each word.

Robbie takes a step back, puffing air from his cheeks, looking down at the ground in serious contemplation before meeting my eyes again with a sly grin. “Well, if it were me, this is what I’d do…”