Page 53 of The Girlfriend Card (Vegas Sin #4)

The One Thing He Never Won

Dakota

A digital clock on the locker room wall counted down the time until we took the ice for Game Seven.

With hours still to go before puck drop, a tension lingered in the air of the Vegas Sin locker room.

The boys were a mess of nerves—legs bouncing relentlessly, fingernails chewed to nubs, thousand-mile stares. Most concerning of all?

No banter and zero laughs.

“It’s just sixty minutes of hockey, boys,” I said as I nonchalantly taped up my twigs, as if this were any other game. “That’s it and that’s all.”

“That’s right,” Rust said, trying to keep the boys calm. “Think of it like any other game. We’ve all been here a million times.”

The boys bobbed their heads in agreement. But you could see the fear in their eyes. They were rattled.

I wasn’t nervous. I used to get nervous before big games—my big problem was that I couldn’t sleep, if you remember, which was what always got me into trouble—but I’m happy to report that I’d lost that affliction this year.

Maybe it has something to do with feeling like my career had a near-death experience. Because after the way last season ended, I truly thought my playing days were done and I’d never get another shot again. And man, once you’ve been through that, you can go through pretty much anything else.

But the other reason I wasn’t nervous?

Well, it all goes back to a little conversation I had with Killer shortly after the season started. We got off to a hot start, winning nine out of our first ten games. After the fourth or fifth game, Killer called me into his office for a chat.

I won’t lie: I was nervous then, because a part of me feared the front office still wanted to trade me. Sure, that was extremely likely—I was dating the team owner, after all, and Ottavia would probably flip out if Killer traded me without her approval—but hey, whoever said fears were rational?

“You wanted to see me, Coach?” I’d asked as I took my seat on the other side of his desk.

“I fucking love the way you’re playing, kid,” he’d said, barely able to conceal the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “If you can keep up this level of play all year, I think you have a real shot at winning the Selke.”

The Frank J. Selke Trophy is awarded to the forward who demonstrates the most skill in the defensive aspect of the game. The list of players who have won it is a veritable who’s-who of the most solid and dependable players in the league.

Like Steve Easton, for example.

My dad.

Sure, I was off to a hot start, but I wasn’t Steve-Easton good.

“The Selke ?” I’d scoffed. “C’mon, Killer. Don’t be crazy.”

“I’m not bullshitting you, Dak,” he’d said. “You’re finally playing like I always wanted. You’re becoming the player I knew you had in you, all along.”

“Well, damn.” I’d been honored, almost embarrassed by his praise—and I hadn’t known what else to say. “Thanks, Killer.”

An awkward silence had lingered in the air.

“So uh … is that all you wanted to talk about?” I’d asked.

“No.” He’d let out an apprehensive sigh. “I called you in here to say I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?”

“Not sticking up for you after the video incident.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it.”

“No. I should’ve stood up to Sal. Because I knew you could be this good. But—” He’d blown out a frustrated breath. “I couldn’t. I was afraid Sal would fire me if I didn’t do what he wanted.”

“That’s reasonable, Killer. He probably would’ve.”

“Maybe. But you’ve got balls, kid. Standing up to that man—and winning.” Killer’s jaw clenched. “I can’t believe we tried to give you away for a bag of pucks.”

“Good thing I had Jane by my side all along, eh?” I’d teased.

Killer pointed at the door, banishing me with a grin. “Get the fuck out of here.”

I stood with a laugh. “Aiight. I’m out.”

Just as I’d reached for the door, though, Killer stopped me. “Hey, Dak?”

“Yeah, Coach?”

“I’m just curious. How many times did your dad win the Selke?”

“Five times.”

“Five times. Jeez,” he’d said with a whistle.

“Of course, he also did it while winning seven scoring titles along the way, which makes the Selkes even more impressive.”

“Your old man was a hell of a player, wasn’t he?”

“He sure was,” I’d said.

I was just about to leave when Killer stopped me a second time. “And yet, as good as your dad was, there’s still one thing he never did.”

“What’s that?” I’d asked, intrigued.

“He never won a Cup.” Killer’s penetrated gaze bore into my soul from across the office. “Dakota, you’ve got a chance to achieve what your pops never could.”

I had to stop and let that soak in. Of course, he hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know—but now I was seeing it in a new light.

“Thanks, Killer,” I’d said.

I hadn’t known it then, Killer planted a seed in my mind, and I left his office with a new mission: to do what my dad never did, and bring the Stanley Cup to Las Vegas.

Which is why I wasn’t at all nervous before Game Seven. Because I knew this whole year had led up to this very point. The Cup was ours … we just had to go out and win it.

I glanced at the clock. Two hours remained until we took the ice.

I grabbed the soccer ball out of my locker.

“Alright, boys. Let’s play some sewerball,” I said, taking a group with me into the hallway.

Anything to take their minds off the game.

Sewerball took the edge off … but only for a bit. Eventually, it was time to head back to the locker room. Once the boys got suited up in their gear, the nerves returned.

With thirty minutes left until we took the ice, Cale Cotton jumped up and ran to the bathroom. The rest of us sat there, listening in awkward silence as the youngster retched and heaved his guts out.

Fuck.

Even I was starting to get a bad feeling.

I still wasn’t nervous. But I certainly wasn’t getting a warm, happy feeling when I glanced around the room at all the pale, sickly faces.

C’mon, boys, get it together, I thought.

I racked my brain, trying to find the right words, or the right joke, that would break the tension and take everyone’s mind off the game. We all tried, again and again, but the anxiety always returned. The room was steeped in it.

I hate to say it, but it was starting to feel like the moment was too big for this team …

But with five minutes left on the clock, something funny happened.

It started as a faint noise in the distance; a chant among the waiting crowd.

“You boys hear that?” I asked. I couldn’t make out the words, but the fans were definitely chanting some thing.

Everybody held still and listened closer.

“Let’s go, Ve~gas!”

The chant began to spread, growing louder as the digital clock counted down the minutes, and then seconds until we took the ice. The fans began to stomp their feet to the beat, making the walls of the locker room shake.

“They believe,” I said simply.

I looked around at our teammates. I’m not sure when, exactly, it happened—but with only seconds left until we took the ice, there was no longer a single hint of nervousness or doubt in anyone’s eyes.

Instead, we were filled with a sense of determination and confidence, ready to give our all for the city of Las Vegas, for our fans, and for each other.

We took the ice, the fans’ chant lifting us up and making us feel like we were ten feet tall.

Looking at my teammates’ faces on the bench, I knew it in my heart:

We’ve got this.