“Next goal wins.”
Thenthe intensity amps up.
I was on the ice when the other team had the puck in our zone. Tank coasted down low and played keep away with our defense, shielding the puck with his huge frame and ass. He might be big and slow, but there’s no one in the NHL better at protecting the puck than him—you just can’t move a man that size off the puck.
But after spending the past two weeks doingnothingelse but Parker’s grueling two-a-days, and hearing my name thrown around in trade rumors, I was bored and pissed enough that I decided to take a friendly run at the big boy.
With Tank stiff-arming a d-man as he circled the boards, I came flying in from the other direction to intercept him behind the net.
“Heads up!”the bench shouted, seeing the hit coming.
Tank braced for impact right as I launched my body into him like a missile. I smashed into Tank like a speeding car crashing into a brick wall, and two big bodies collided with athud,a kinetic force rippling outward. The wind was knocked right out of me, and my lungs collapsed with a gutturaloof.
For a second, it looked like I’d taken the worst of the hit, as Tank merely bounced off me—but then his feet began to slip on the ice, his skates treading at the ice faster and faster in a desperate attempt to regain his footing.
And then it happened.
The big man toppled over, falling to the ice like a redwood, the rink practically shaking.
The boys on the bench shouted, their voices echoing in the empty rink with a mix of shock and amusement.
“Holy fuck!”
“I’ve never seen Tank go down like that before!”
“Dak steamrolled him!”
Yeah, yeah. Everyone was shocked and impressed, and I should be proud of myself for doing the impossible. Yadda yadda. But the thing about hitting is, it can be a double-edged sword. It doesn’t just hurt the guy getting hit—it often hurts the guymakingthe hit, too.
I tried not to let the pain show, but I coasted back to the bench, keeled over and teeth gritted in pain.
Tank chased me back to the bench, giving me a shove from behind. “Hey! Take it easy, you fucking hard-o!” Tank yelled, his ego bruised. “It’s an off-season scrimmage!”
I climbed over the boards and slouched on the bench, unable to breathe with my diaphragm constricted.
Back on the other bench, Tank leaned over the boards and continued to bark at me. “Why are you trying to take my head off, bud? I just got back from Acapulco last fucking night! You’re gonna hurt somebody throwing your weight around like that, asshole!”
Rust, sitting next to me on the bench, tugged on my jersey. “Ignore his whining. He’s not used to getting tagged,” the cagey veteran said, and gave me a wry smile. “Butthat’sthe style of hockey you’re capable of playing, Dak. You don’thaveto be the flashy goal scorer your dad was, with all the fanciest fucking dekes up your sleeve. Just go hard to the net. Use that big frame of yours. Lean on guys. Light ‘em up every now and then so they respect and fear you. Do all that, and you’ve got a roster spot on thirty-two teams in the NHL, guaranteed.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” I said, still gasping for breath.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
Annoyed, I slammed my stick against the boards. “You see what everyone’s saying about me?”
I was the villain in hockey media today. Not just Vegas Sin media, mind you. The entire league. Over the past two weeks,everyhockey writer in America seemed to come out with an article about how spoiled-ass Dakota Easton was everything that was wrong with modern hockey: a selfish, overpaid, showboating, entitled brat who only made it to the NHL because of nepotism.
Rust shrugged unsympathetically. “Better get used to it, or it’s going to be a real long summer for you. Until next season starts, all anyone remembers is your last game.”
I sighed. “Great.”
Truth was? So far, I’d done everything Killer and Mr. Capuano wanted me to do. And I felt like a soulless robot because of it. Every day was the same: wake up early, go to thegym, eat a huge lunch, go back to the gym, eat a huge dinner. By seven o’clock, I was so damned worn out, I didn’t have the energy to do anything but hit the sack. Lather, rinse, repeat. I’d barely hung out with any of my friends. I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol or been to any bars or clubs. I’d even stayed away from chicks.
Which—by the way—can I just take a moment to give myself a little pat on the back for that last one? Seriously, I deserve some high praise for not going absolutelynutson the women in this town. Because for some reason, over the past two weeks, every dime piece in Las Vegas has come crawling out of the woodwork.It must be my growing reputation as hockey’s “bad boy” or something—because I swear,everywhereI go, chicks are trying to seduce me. And I’m talkinghotbabes, that look like they’re dressed for the club, even though we’re shopping at Whole Foods on a Monday morning.
“Dakoooooooota!”A pair of girls were parked behind the bench, jumping around and banging on the glass, their tits jiggling in their low-cut shirts. They’d been there all scrimmage long. And every time I came back to the bench, they started screaming my name to get my attention.
See? See what I’m talking about?
