9. Dalton
NINE
DALTON
LISTEN, I KNOW BOYS ARE DUMB, AND VIOLENCE IS BAD, BUT GOD DO I LOVE IT WHEN THEY GET ALL AGGRESSIVE OVER THE GIRL...
There was something seriously wrong with me.
All weekend, I’d sent Ari messages via CashPay, hoping for some kind of response. The fact that she hadn’t sent back the six dollars was a good sign…right?
“You alright, Cap?” Jimenez asked as I scrubbed my palms over my face, trying to shake off the mental hoops I was putting myself through.
I’d considered asking his advice, since he was the team’s self-proclaimed expert on women. But I didn’t know if his advice was the kind I was looking for. Plus, what would he say when he found out I was messaging her through a payment app because I didn’t have her number? And worse, that she hadn’t even responded.
What was the line for moving into stalking territory?
“He’s probably tired from the action he got Friday night,” Roberts shouted from across the locker room. “Did you see her, Jimenez? Damn, she was fine.”
“The fuck are you talking about, Up-Chuck? Cap here didn’t get any pussy Friday night.” My best friend turned to me, lowering his voice. “Did you?” he asked, almost hopeful.
I yanked on the ties of my sneakers a little harder than necessary. “No, I didn’t sleep with anyone Friday.” Just another disappointing reminder that I hadn’t asked Ariella to come home with me. I’d replayed it a hundred times, all the things I could’ve said. But if I was being honest with myself, I didn’t want her as a one-night stand.
I wanted more of her, period.
I let out a ragged sigh. Maybe she was right to keep it to just one night. She wasn’t the only one who had life circumstances that demanded attention. All of my attention needed to be on making it to playoffs, winning the Stanley Cup this year, and keeping out of Emma’s warpath. In retrospect, making her think that I had a date may not have been the best move.
Damn, Ari had more discipline than I had—and that was saying something.
The drafted message in CashPay burned a hole in my shorts pocket. I needed to move on.
She already had.
“Oh, come on, Cap, don’t hold out on us. Look how cozy you two look. You had to hit that after looking at each other like that. ” Roberts said, shoving his phone at me.
On the screen was a tabloid picture of Ari and me with the headline: “Star Hockey Player Dalton Langley Steps Out with Mystery Woman.” And in a block of smaller text below it: “Was She the Cause of Surprise Split with Longtime Girlfriend Emma Faulk?”
“Sources say Langley was seen cozying up to a mystery woman after snubbing his ex. The two even shared an intimate kiss before leaving together in a cab,” Jimenez read over my shoulder, smacking me on the arm when he got to the kissing part. “Damn it, man, why didn’t you tell me you finally kissed someone other than that bruja ?”
“Because I didn’t kiss her. Not then, at least,” I muttered, irritated, looking closer at the photo of me and Ari. The angle from where the picture was taken told me everything I needed to know about who’d snapped it.
I should have anticipated Emma doing something like this.
I studied the grainy photo. Roberts wasn’t wrong. We looked at each other like we couldn’t wait to get home. She’d captured the moment I tucked a strand of Ari’s silky hair behind her ear. All weekend, I dreamt of that hair sprawled across my pillows or gripped in my hand as I pulled it.
Roberts’s voice shattered the fantasy. “So, she’s free game then? Because let me tell you, I?—”
Without thinking, I shot out of my seat, shoving the rookie back with more force than needed. Jimenez caught him before he fell on his ass, arching a brow at me. I ignored the silent question, too fired up to think rationally.
“She’s not free game, rookie.” The locker room fell silent, all eyes on us.
Roberts held both hands up in the air, a sly smirk on his baby face. “You got it, Cap. She’s your girl.”
She wasn’t my girl, but I couldn’t seem to get those words out.
Luckily Monroe walked in, saving my ass from explaining to Jimenez why I went off on a teammate over a woman I barely knew. “Hey, assholes, let’s go. You’ve got about thirty minutes before meeting your new strength and conditioning coach this morning. Let’s not start off with all of you being late.” Grunts of agreement mixed with the slamming of locker doors as everyone geared up.
We worked in the weight room all season, but concentrated on it most during the off-season and pre-season. The guy we’d had last year had left about a month before for health reasons, leaving Monroe in a rush to find a replacement.
“Dalt, your dad wants to see you in his office,” he added, giving me a nod. “Make it quick.”
The protein shake from that morning turned into a rock at the bottom of my stomach. “Got it. I’ll head over there now,” I said, making my way out of the locker room and toward my dad’s office near the entrance of the practice rink.
A giant photo of the man in question hung on the wall right outside the double doors. Vincent Langley, former star NHL player, owner of the Dallas Desperados, self-made millionaire, and my father. His intense stare in the image almost captured how imposing the man was in real life. I knocked once, waiting for the go-ahead. Dad had a rule about players entering his space uninvited. Called it a show of disrespect if they did.
No one on the team was called to meet with him as much as I was, though.
“Dalton, you’re not just a player. You’re a brand. You represent my legacy, and I won’t have you tarnishing my image. ”
“Come in,” a deep voice snapped.
I walked in, closing the door behind me. “You wanted to see me, Dad?”
The office was an extension of the man who owned it, exuding strength and elegance with its charcoal walls and masculine furniture. Jimenez once asked me if my dad’s desk size was a reflection of his dick size, which, of course, left me with a mental image I’d never wanted.
Without looking up, he gestured toward the club chairs, engrossed in whatever paperwork lay in front of him. “Sit, Dalton.” That’s how it was with him. He gave a command, and I followed it. Whenever it rubbed me the wrong way, I reminded myself that this whole father-son thing was new—at least for me, it was.
“Let’s talk about this season and what I expect,” he finally said, folding his large hands in front of him on the cognac leather blotter.
Seeing the same mossy color I saw staring back at me in the mirror every day reflected in his gaze was always unnerving. And our eyes weren’t the only similarities between us.
My build clearly came from my father, same with the sharp jaw, and before his head of hair turned salt and pepper, we’d shared the same sandy brown hair color, too. Still, I always felt I saw more of my mom in myself. Maybe that had more to do with growing up with only her around—I hadn’t known another parental figure to try and find bits of myself in.
“Sure, Dad. What exactly are you wanting to go over?”
His lips thinned. “Vincent. Or Mr. Langley, Dalton. ‘Dad’ suggests unprofessionalism.”
He’d hammered that concept into me more times than I could count. You’d think breaking that habit would’ve been easy since I wasn’t used to calling anyone ‘dad’ until my senior year of college.
“I expect the team to make it to playoffs this year, and to win them. There won’t be a repeat of last year, understand me?” I nodded, knowing that’s all he wanted—a silent show that I heard him loud and clear.
He stood, coming to lean against the front of his mahogany desk. “Dalton, you’re going to have a lot of eyes on you. People are already interested because it will be our comeback season, but you’ve added scrutiny due to the last name on the back of your jersey. A name I don’t want tarnished. And with all the attention since your public breakup a few months ago…well, let’s say you’re not off to a good start in showing me you can handle the pressure.”
I winced.
Yes, because it’s easy to bounce back from being broken up with via a note on our shared apartment door after losing the playoff game in overtime.
I wondered if he’d seen the tabloid from this weekend and that was what sparked this conversation. Probably not, or he’d have brought it up specifically. The man didn’t mince his words.
It wasn’t that I had a reputation. I didn’t share Jimenez’s playboy status, or have a gravitas like Monroe, who was known to essentially only give grunts for answers .
But my dad was right, the last name on my jersey meant I drew attention, and since the split with Emma, I’d continued to be a topic of conversation, mainly by her doing. Far enough removed from the relationship I could see that I was just a way to keep her name relevant.
Hopefully, Ari worked in an industry far removed from the sports world, and she’d never even know she’d been dragged into my mess by the tabloids.
“It won’t be a problem.”
He arched a brow. “So far, all you’ve shown me is how well you can hide away.”
God, the difference in how my mom and dad delivered pep talks was like night and day.
The heavily cologned air of his office filled my nostrils as I took a deep breath, trying to ground myself and swallow down my irritation.
I stood, wiping my clammy hands off on my shorts. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure I represent you and this team properly, but I’ve got to get to the weight room for practice. Being late for the new coach wouldn’t be a good look.” His jaw ticked at the hint of an attitude in my tone, but he didn’t object as I walked toward the door to leave.
“See that you do,” he called after me. “And don’t forget, the Media Day event is coming up. You’re the primary face of this franchise. I expect you to set the tone for the season, Dalton. No slip-ups.”
I gripped the door handle, saying nothing as the weight of his expectations settled heavily on my shoulders.
“This team needs a leader. If you can’t handle the attention or maintain focus under pressure, let me know now, and I’ll find someone who can.”
My jaw tightened, muscles tensing at the insinuation that I wasn’t capable of living up to his expectations. That I wasn’t enough.
He seemed to sense my irritation and pulled me back in line with five words that always hit their mark.
“Go make me proud, son.”
He looked at me with an expression that was as close to a smile as I got from him. Every time I saw it, I was sucked right back to being a kid, watching other dads look lovingly at their sons. Wishing I had the same moment to share with mine.
Now I did. My dad was in my life now, in a major way.
I should be grateful. He’d given me this opportunity—stepped back into my life. I owed him, right? I couldn’t fuck it all up.
I gave a firm nod, reminding myself of my priorities.
No tabloids. No distractions.
No thoughts of Ari.
“Of course, Dad.”