Page 2 of The Girlfriend Card (Vegas Sin #4)

Getting in Killer’s doghouse was one thing—but no one wanted to get on Mr. Capuano’s shit list. It’s basically an open secret in Las Vegas that Mr. Capuano is a mafia boss.

Maybe even the mafia boss. Hell, in the locker room, we refer to him as The Godfather—not that any of us would ever dream of saying that to his face.

“Shit,” I hissed, realizing the gravity of the situation. “So … what now?”

“He wants you gone, Dak.”

At first, I thought gone meant buried somewhere in the Nevada desert. It came as a small relief when I realized he meant traded—either way, it sounded like my time in Vegas would be over.

“Unless you can prove you’re committed, he wants you off this team,” Killer said.

“I’m committed,” I said, though I hoped Killer hadn’t heard the waver in my voice.

“Committed to hockey? Or getting your dick wet?”

“Hockey …”

“Yeah? Good. Because I wasn’t joking around when I asked you for one good reason not to trade your ass. So?” He spread his hands as if he were expecting something from me. “Let’s hear it. Give me something I can take back to Mr. Capuano as proof that things will be different moving forward.”

“I’ll, uh,” I stammered. “I’ll dedicate myself to hockey?”

“Not good enough. I’ve been hearing that kind of talk for years now. I need specifics.”

“Okay. Uh.” I drew a breath. “I’ll take my training seriously this summer.”

A fury lit behind his eyes. “That’s what I already expect from all my players.”

Shit. I was making things worse. If I wanted to win Killer over? I had to make some actual concessions.

I sighed. “Fine. I won’t go home this summer. I’ll hang around Vegas. I’ll work with the strength and conditioning guys, so they can report to you for accountability, or whatever.”

He nodded, happy to hear that.

But it wasn’t enough.

“And alcohol?” he asked, raising a palm.

“I uh … I won’t have a drop?”

He motioned with his hand, Keep going.

“Fuck me,” I muttered under my breath. “What else do you want me to say? That I’ll stop hooking up with girls, too?”

I’d said it sarcastically, but for the first time since our meeting began, Killer’s face happily crinkled. “I think that would be a real promising start.”

“Killer! C’mon. I’m a single pro athlete living in Las Vegas—”

“And Mr. Capuano is a family man, Dakota; you know that,” he said.

“He’s got a daughter away at college now.

A sweet girl named Ottavia. And I can guarantee you he doesn’t like seeing guys like you running through women her age.

He likes his players settled down and married—not drinking and chasing broads before big games.

So if your goal is to convince Mr. Capuano you’re serious about changing?

Yeah, I think settling down would be a great start. ”

I let out a flustered sigh.

“Okay … so if he’s this big family guy … then you could tell him I’ve got a girlfriend,” I said desperately.

“ You can tell Mr. Capuano whatever you’re comfortable with, Dakota. But I am not going to knowingly lie to that man on your behalf.”

Ah. I could read between the lines. If I wanted Mr. Capuano to think I had a girlfriend, then I’d better start acting like I had one with Killer, too.

Cautiously, I said, “It’s not a lie. I really do have a girlfriend.”

Killer threw his head back and laughed. “Bull. No, you don’t.”

Was it a lie? Depends on how you look at it. I’ve got a bullpen of girlfriends, just none that I’m really, y’know, committed to in a traditional sense. (Don’t feel bad for them; they all know the score. I’m not a scumbag.)

“Sure I do,” I said, doubling down.

“Quick! What’s her name?” Killer asked, rapidly snapping his fingers.

Pressured, I blurted out the first name that popped into my head. “Jane.”

The corner of Killer’s mouth curled into a wry smile. “Jane, yeah? And what’s Jane’s last name? Doe?”

“That’s not cool, bro. Jane’s insecure about her name.”

“Don’t ever call me ‘bro’ again, bro .”

“Sorry, Coach.”

He studied me, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t believe you, by the way. And if you’re going to convince Mr. Capuano, you’re going to have to be a lot more convincing than that. Because I suspect he’ll want to have a conversation with you over the phone.”

“Believe it or not, it’s the truth,” I lied.

“Yeah? So if you have a girlfriend, then why were you riding that bull with some hot blonde bouncing in your lap?”

“She was, er, a friend.”

I gnashed my teeth. Any which way you looked at my story, I was fucked.

I leaned forward to quietly share a secret. “Okay, honestly, Killer? I don’t know that chick. I was already on the bull when she hopped on and jumped in my lap. I didn’t even do anything with her.”

“I’d sure hope not, because Jane would be devastated,” Killer said. His wink told me he didn’t want any more off-the-record information.

Realizing I was committed to this fraud now, I nodded. “Yeah … yeah, exactly.”

“So just to be clear, when I speak to Mr. Capuano later, I’m going to tell him what you told me today: that you’ve got a girlfriend and you’re dedicated to taking your summer training seriously. That’s what you want, right?”

Why did it feel like I was signing my death warrant?

Killer sensed my hesitation. “A word of advice. If that’s the story you go with, you’d better start living your life as if all that’s true.

Fake it ’til you make it, Dak—because the best way of telling a convincing lie is to believe it yourself.

Stop partying and start your summer training immediately.

Hell, you might even get yourself a girlfriend.

Because Mr. Capuano isn’t the kind of man you want to get caught lying to. ”

Shit.

That didn’t sound good.

But what choice did I have? I had to stay in the NHL—I didn’t have any other life skills. All I’ve been my whole life is a hockey player. Take that away, and my life would basically be over. Hell, I think I’d rather get whacked by Mr. Capuano than work a real job …

“So is that what I’m going to tell Mr. Capuano?” Killer asked, my fate seemingly hanging in the balance. “Is that your story?”

I didn’t feel good about it, no. But all I had to do was keep my activities on the DL for a few months until, hopefully, this whole thing blew over.

“That’s my story,” I said, nodding with conviction. “Tell him.”

What’s the worst that could happen?