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 evenmetthe guy who signs our checks. We’ve only captured glimpsesof 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 embarrassedhimpersonally.”
Getting in Killer’s doghouse was one thing—butno onewanted 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 eventhemafia boss. Hell, in the locker room, we refer to him as The Godfather—not that any of us would everdreamof 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 thoughtgonemeant 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 Ialreadyexpect 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.
“Youcan tell Mr. Capuano whatever you’re comfortable with, Dakota. ButIam not going to knowingly lie to that man on your behalf.”
