16. Dash
SIXTEEN
DASH
Sliding into the back of the SUV, I see Drew, my agent, and Dean Costello, the man who signs my checks, glued to their phones, not even looking at me.
Coach D’s looking out the window, knee bouncing. She’s pissed. I knew she would be.
I whistle low, leaning back against the leather. “Well, damn, the royal treatment. All that’s missing is a crown and a red velvet cape.”
Dean doesn’t look up. Drew gives me a narrowed sidelong glance but keeps scrolling on her tablet.
It’s Coach D who reacts. She whips her head around, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. “Sterling, you think this is funny? The day before the Detroit game. You left a message saying you had a family issue to attend to, and then shut down all communication. How is that acceptable!”
I lift my hands, palms out. “I was joking.”
“Joking?” she fires back, her voice low and lethal. “You vanish and show up with your name splattered all over social media at a wedding because you couldn’t keep your face out of the spotlight, and you want to joke?”
Drew clears her throat then mutters, “Dyl?—”
“Shut it, Drew,” Coach D doesn’t let her finish. “He’s yours to babysit off-season. He’s mine on it.” Her eyes lock on me again, hard and unrelenting. “You don’t get to jeopardize the team because you’ve suddenly discovered you want to play house, Sterling.”
Heat crawls up my neck, but I smirk, anyway, because it’s either smirk or look guilty, and I’m not giving her the satisfaction. “So, what you’re saying is … you don’t like my new cape idea?”
Drew groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. Dean still doesn’t look up.
“Sterling.” Coach D’s voice drops into that tone, the one that makes rookies piss themselves. “You keep pushing me, and I’ll run you until your legs fall off. You want to be funny? Be funny when you’re still on the roster come playoff time.”
I bite my tongue, nod once, and stare out the window.
When she takes a call, Costello glances back and whispers, “You get the girl?”
“Pretty sure I made an impression.”
He chuckles.
By the time we pull up to the hotel, I’m itching for an escape. I toss my bag over my shoulder, nod to Coach, and head straight inside and for the elevators.
When I unlock the door to the suite, the sound hits me first—laughter, trash talk, the familiar thud of someone flicking a stress ball too hard against a wall.
Inside, the guys are sprawled everywhere. Koa’s got eyes glued to his screen; Killer and Mother are shoulder to shoulder on the couch, locked in a video game death match, shouting insults thick with accents; and Deacon is perched on the armrest, scowling off into the distance.
Four sets of eyes swing my way the second I step in.
“Finally,” Deacon mumbles. “We were starting to place bets on whether you’d show up with hickeys or a restraining order.”
“Or both,” Faulkner adds, looking back at the screen.
Killer laughs so hard he loses his game life, swears in Russian, and chucks the controller.
Koa sits up and actually sets his phone down, no doubt stopping the scroll.
Not social media, not reels, nor highlights.
No, KOK scrolls through the months’ worth of messages he and Nalani have sent back and forth to entertain himself when we’re on the road and she’s not with him.
“Are we getting the play-by-play, do we gotta drag it out of you, or do I wait till my wife spills the tea?”
I drop my bag, lean against the wall, and let a slow grin creep across my face. “Depends. You want the ESPN highlight reel version … or the full behind-the-scenes?”
That gets a chorus of groans, hoots, and laughter.
They want the gossip, but I’m not sure how much I should give them.
They’re all staring at me now—Koa with his arms folded like a team captain, Killer and Faulker grinning like they’re about to chirp me into the ground, Deacon perched on the armrest, eyes narrowed.
I rub the back of my neck. “All right, fine. You want the rundown? Here it is.” I suck in a breath and let it all spill in one go.
“Faceoff was the wedding. She looked insane—like, shut-down-the-arena insane—in that red dress, and the second I saw her, I knew I was already playing from behind. Neutral zone trap from the bridesmaids, Lauren chirping from the bench, but I kept my eyes on the ‘puck.’ Over dinner, I gave her the whole damn game plan. Got her on the dance floor, and yeah, boys, that was the turning point. Perfect song comes on, lean entry, perfect zone time. Didn’t overhandle, just kept it simple.
Shift after shift, little plays, subtle touches, reading her body language.
By the time dessert came out, I knew I had momentum, and she knew it, too.
Post-game presser version? She laughed. At me.
With me. I don’t even know, but it felt like overtime sudden death when the puck actually goes in. ”
The room is dead silent, and then Killer cackles. “You’re saying you scored?”
I shake my head, hands up. “Easy. Don’t get ahead of the tape.
I’m not giving you play-by-play in the crease.
But let’s just say … there was some heavy stickhandling, a few penalties, and a delay of game, if you catch my drift.
Oh, and yeah, the equipment manager might have some extra laundry to deal with. ”
Deacon barks out a laugh. “Jesus Christ.”
Faulker grins. “So, you’re telling us One Night Dash finally wants to play more than one period?”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, but I’m grinning because, yeah, he’s not wrong.
Koa tilts his head, still studying me. “And?”
I shrug, but it’s useless, because they can all see it—the stupid look on my face I can’t shake. “And she’s not just a game. She’s the whole damn season. Might even be the franchise.”
The room erupts—catcalls, whistles, Killer throwing a pillow at me.
But the thing is? I’m not kidding.
Not even a little.
“What happened with Coach D?” Decon asks.
I give them the lowdown, but don’t mention what Dean Costello asked, because that wasn’t a team thing, that was Costello with his heart on his sleeve, and not everyone needs to see him like I do, like a once college rival, just a man who loves the game.
Because he’s also a billionaire badass who gave me a shot. Respect.
Away games always screw with the rhythm. A different hotel bed, a different arena, and even the coffee tastes off. I do my best to keep it normal . Same playlist, same stretches, same way I tape my stick. Even the boxers.
Yes, I have half a dozen pairs, all identical.
Red, with black pucks and sticks scattered all over them.
Not some nasty superstition thing where I wear the same pair until they can stand on their own.
Nah. I’m a professional. Pretty boy, some might say, and by some, I mean Deacon .
Fresh, clean, game-day only, every time.
Coach D didn’t let me off easy this morning.
After she picked me up from the airport, she hauled my ass straight to a rink outside the city.
“Shake it off,” she said. Which really meant, skate until your lungs burn and your legs feel like lead.
Not punishment—though it stung—but a favor.
Because once I got to the hotel, the edge was dulled, the noise in my head a little quieter.
This brings me to the present.
Before I left Noelle at the hotel, I tucked a pair of those boxers into her bag.
Now, sitting in the locker room, I fire off the text.
Me
I wanted you to feel me when I’m on the ice. If you feel the same, there’s a pair of my game day boxers in your bag. No pressure. No expectations.
I set the phone down, roll my shoulders, and tell myself it’s nothing if she doesn’t reply. I tape my stick like I’ve always done, neat and tight, blade to toe. Routine’s what matters.
Then my phone buzzes.
It’s a mirror selfie.
Noelle.
In my boxers.
She’s knotted a hair tie around the waistband to cinch them, tank top bunched just enough that there’s no mistaking what she’s wearing. Her grin is soft, sweet, but there’s a spark in her eyes that shoots straight through me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, grinning like an idiot, ignoring the chirps coming from Killer and Faulker across the room.
I grab her panties—the plain black cotton ones I took off her sexy self last night and snap a short video. My palm, her underwear, and then I push them deep into the front of my hockey pants, right where I’ll feel them every shift.
Caption: Guess I’ve got my own good luck charm tonight.
The second it delivers, I shake my head, laughing under my breath.
Noelle
Um … I have no words.
Me
Wish me luck.
Noelle:
Make It Count!
Home, in Brooklyn, it’s noise and love. The kind that rattles your chest, makes the barn thrum when you touch the puck. But here? In Detroit? It’s venom. It’s louder, meaner, sharper. It’s like taking a clean open-ice hit, one of those bone-rattlers you feel in your ribs for a week.
The Detroit Diesel. Fans wear hard hats painted black and silver, and the rev of engine sounds blasts over the speakers; the whole arena shakes like a factory line at full tilt. When we come out of the tunnel, the boos crash down heavy enough to drown the music.
I eat it up.
My blades cut the ice as we flood the rink for warmups.
The chill air burns my lungs in a good way; sweat is already breaking out under the gear.
Same ritual, even on enemy ice: three warm-up laps counterclockwise before switching.
Stretch the legs, loosen the shoulders. Then it’s pucks—low glove, high blocker, quick snap shots to feel the release.
Koa grins as he sails past me, flicking one top shelf. “Wake up, Sterling.”
“Already up,” I mutter, chasing a rebound, sliding it cross-crease for Rivera. He taps it back—clean, sharp. That’s our line: Rivera at center, Koa left wing, me on the right. Killer and Faulker hold the blue line, Deacon between the pipes.