Page 1 of The Girlfriend Card (Vegas Sin #4)

Nothingburger

Dakota

D ean Miller stared down at me like an enraged grizzly bear, his massive arms folded tightly across his chest.

“Give me one fucking reason why I shouldn’t ship your sorry ass out of here,” he snarled, seething with bitter disappointment.

A legendary hockey player in his own day, “Killer” wore two hats in the Vegas Sin organization: he was our coach and general manager.

Today, though, Killer had summoned me into the GM’s office. I didn’t need to ask why. He stared at me across the massive oak desk, his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the veins pulsing in his wide neck.

“Game Seven, Dakota,” Killer snarled. “The biggest game of the year. And how did you prepare for it?”

I didn’t dare speak. Not because I want to get traded— hell no!

I love this city and I love this team!—but because when Killer’s pissed off, the smartest thing you can do is shut the hell up and let him burn through his anger.

So I wore my best puppy dog face, making it look like I really learned my lesson.

Because in the end? This storm will pass. They always do.

“ Well? ” He demanded an answer.

I cleared my throat and began my measured defense. “Okay, Killer, I know how this looks—”

“Looks? Looks? ” he repeated, enraged. “This goes way beyond looks.”

Killer yanked open a drawer, whipped out a newspaper, and smacked it down onto his desk. The already-infamous image of me—a grainy still-frame captured from the full video—filled the entire front page of the sports section. The headline read:

SINFUL BEHAVIOR: Did Dakota’s Wild Night Doom the Sin in Game 7?

“Go on, read it,” Killer urged.

I didn’t need to read it. I’d seen and heard enough over the past thirty-six hours to know exactly what the article said.

“I’m good,” I said, and carefully slid the paper back to his side of the desk.

“No? Then how about I read it to you instead?” Killer snatched the paper off the desk and began to read aloud.

“ Sin fans feared it was a bad omen when Dakota Easton was seen limping into the arena before Game 7. When asked by a reporter if he was hurt, Easton flashed his charming smile and replied, ‘It’s the playoffs. Everyone’s banged up. ’

“ It’s an oft-repeated hockey axiom we all know and love.

Why? Because it highlights the admirable qualities that make this sport so special: humility, passion, and selflessness.

Above all, winning in hockey requires sacrifice.

And hockey players are willing to make those sacrifices because they’re true warriors. ”

Killer paused to leer at me, a fire burning in his eyes before he continued to read.

“ But is that what really happened? Did Dakota truly earn his limp playing in the meat grinder that is playoff hockey? Or was he ‘banged up’ for another reason entirely? Because I saw it. You saw it. We all saw the proof that, the very night before Game 7, hockey was the last thing on the playboy’s mind. ”

I’d heard enough of this hack’s article. “Alright, Killer, I get it already,” I groaned.

But Killer raised a stern finger, warning me not to interrupt him again, and continued the article.

“ I’m talking, of course, about the video that went viral on social media shortly after the Dallas Devils easily routed the Sin in an embarrassing, season-ending 6–1 loss.

The video, posted on TikTok at 3 AM, was filmed at a Dallas bar called Stampede.

With his trademark locks flowing out from beneath his backwards ball cap, and an overflowing pint of beer in hand, Easton is seen riding a bucking mechanical bull, while a buxom blonde bounces in his lap.

Dozens of drunken revelers cheer the couple on as they appear to simulate a raunchy sex act.

But the fun comes to an end when the bull begins spinning in circles, faster and faster, until both riders are violently ejected and sent crashing to the ground.

The crowd groans, and the video ends with Easton writhing on the ground, clutching his left knee—the same leg he would be seen favoring just hours later. ”

I blew out a heavy sigh and ran a hand through my ear-length hair. It sucked reliving the moment. I wasn’t proud of it. It was easily the lowest point of my career. And hell, my knee still hurt.

But I still didn’t think it was that big of a deal.

“ In the aftermath of the Sin’s crushing loss to the Devils, the spotlight now burns the brightest on Dakota.

The burning question on every fan’s mind is, what should the Sin do with their most polarizing player?

The twenty-six-year-old center has the same tools that made his father, Steve Easton, a first-ballot Hockey Hall of Fame inductee.

But Steve possessed some crucial traits that Dakota did not inherit, like an utter hatred of losing.

Dakota, sadly, has no such desire to win, no killer instinct to speak of.

The party boy seems happy cashing an NHL check, smugly grinning as he floats around the ice as if he’s worth every cent of his five-million-dollar contract.

But back in reality, everyone knows Dakota hasn’t earned his contract.

He’s an entitled, spoiled little brat, content to coast on the coattails of his dad’s success.

But fans are sick and tired of waiting for— ”

“ Alright, Killer,” I snapped. “They hate me. I get it. What else is new?”

“With that video out there, can you blame them?”

I tutted. “Please. The fans, the media—they’ve all been up my ass my whole career. And it started way before that stupid video.”

“Maybe because they watched your dad play. Maybe because they think you have a lot more to give this sport. Did you ever think of that?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Roll your eyes all you want, Dakota—that video just proved them right.” He grabbed a fistful of his greying hair. “What were you even thinking?! Why were you out that late with our season on the line?”

Truth is? I didn’t really know.

“I guess I couldn’t sleep,” I murmured.

He scoffed. “Couldn’t sleep. So you went boozin’ and sniffin’ around for women, and hurt your knee before the biggest game of the year. Unreal.”

“My knee was fine.”

“You were hobbled, Dak. You limped into the locker room like a wounded animal.”

“And then the trainer gave me a shot of Toradol and hey, guess what, I was as good as new. By the way, you know what’s bullshit?

” I pointed at the newspaper. “For all the words that guy wrote, he somehow never mentioned the fact that I scored our only goal. But I guess that’d go against the narrative, huh? ”

“We lost, Dak. Our season is over. ”

“Sure. But I still scored. So why am I getting all the blame?”

His palm met his forehead. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

“What I get is that the fans need a scapegoat. Am I really the reason we lost that game? No. If we win that game? No one even cares about the video. It’s a total nothingburger.”

“But that’s not what happened. We lost. And so everyone cares about the video.”

A silence came between us.

Killer’s chair creaked as he leaned back, and when he spoke again, his tone had softened. “I wouldn’t normally tell a player this. But I feel like you need to understand exactly where you’re at in your career.”

I raised a curious eyebrow.

“Dak.” His eyes darted to the phone on his desk. “I’ve been on the phone all morning long, trying to move you.”

I recoiled, surprised. “C’mon—really, Killer? You’re serious?”

He nodded.

My heart sank. Yeah, I’d messed up, but I didn’t think it was that bad.

“Unfortunately, trading you is easier said than done. Every GM in the league now thinks you’re a locker room cancer.

And even if they wanted to trade for you?

They’re so afraid of the backlash from their own fans, they need me to sweeten the deal.

” He stared at me, long and hard. “Understand what I’m telling you?

You are now a toxic asset in this league.

You have negative trade value. I have to pay teams to take you. ”

I hung my head. It sucked to hear there wasn’t a single team interested in me, even when the price to acquire me was at an all-time low.

“Which puts me in a horrible position,” Killer continued.

“Suppose I trade you for a bag of pucks, because that’s all anyone’s offering.

If, one day, against all odds, you finally pull your head out of your ass and turn your career around?

Then I’m the guy that gets carved up in the media because I sold low on a former first-round draft pick with a Hall of Fame bloodline.

Your stupid little bull ride could end up costing me my job. ”

“So don’t trade me,” I said meekly.

Killer shook his head solemnly. “Truth is, even if I wanted to bring you back next year? It’s not up to me anymore.”

“Who’s it up to?”

He pointed skyward. “The big guy.”

I gulped. “Mr. Capuano?”

“The owner himself,” Killer nodded.

I was shocked. Sal Capuano was the furthest thing from a meddling owner who injected himself into team business.

The billionaire casino magnate had a hands-off approach; he preferred to lurk in the shadows, observing and overseeing his team from a distance.

In fact, none of us players have ever even met the guy who signs our checks.

We’ve only captured glimpses of him, on one of the rare occasions he attended one of our home games, sitting way up high in his owner’s club box.

Even then, his presence was shrouded in mystery—all we could see from ice-level was his hulking silhouette, cigar in hand, menacingly pacing the darkened club box, like a pit boss surveilling the casino floor.

“Mr. Capuano knows about the video?” I muttered, still in disbelief.

“Of course he knows,” Killer said with a hint of amusement. “You can’t turn on a single sports station in this city without hearing about your joyride on a mechanical bull. And he isn’t pleased. In his eyes, you embarrassed yourself, your team, your city, and you embarrassed him personally . ”