1
Nothingburger
Dakota
Dean Miller stared down at me like an enraged grizzly bear, his massive arms folded tightly across his chest.
“Give meonefucking 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 coachandgeneral 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—hellno! 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. Theyalwaysdo.
“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 goeswaybeyond 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—thesameleg 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 Istilldidn’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 withtheir 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 startedwaybefore that stupid video.”
