Grizz
The Texas sun blinds me the second we step off the plane. Heat rises from the tarmac in visible waves, the air thick enough to chew. Dallas greets us with a wall of humidity and a welcome committee of fans waving jerseys at the edge of the runway fence.
“You really are something else, bro.”
“It’s called professionalism.”
I smirk, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I thought professionalism was showing up to practice sober.”
He grins, shameless. “You’re confusing professionalism with moderation. Entirely different skill set.”
We pile onto the team bus that will transport us to the hotel.
The guys are joking, long legs stretched out after the flight.
Everyone’s in good spirits because a winning streak early in the season can turn a locker room into the most fun place in the world.
Downtown Dallas flashes by through tinted windows…
glass towers, wide streets, cowboy hats mixed with Teslas and boutique hotels.
When we pull up to the hotel, a throng of Vipers fans are already there, pressed against metal barricades. Mostly kids and adults wearing our jerseys, holding Sharpies and iPhones. A few hold up signs.
One reads MARRY ME GRIZZ; another says GRIZZ MODE ALWAYS ON.
I smile politely and sign a few quick signatures. I’ve learned that giving them thirty seconds now saves me thirty minutes of guilt later. Besides, if there’s a group of people who are never on my fight list, it’s the fans. They’re why I do what I do.
Inside, the air-conditioning is heavenly, and our hotel is beyond posh. Langley only books five-stars because he thinks luxury translates to loyalty, and it’s not a bad bet.
I grab my room key and head for the elevators before Tanner can start recruiting me for his evening plans.
“Hey, wait up!” he calls, jogging to catch me. “You’re my roommate, remember?”
“Unfortunately.”
He laughs as we step inside the elevator. “You gonna nap or unpack?”
“I’m gonna not talk to you.”
Tanner presses the button for our floor. “Fair. But heads-up… I might have to use the mirror in the room for grooming purposes later.”
“Define grooming.”
“You’ll know when you hear the music.”
The doors slide open on the fifteenth floor and we walk down the hall to our room. I toss my bag onto the nearest sofa and collapse onto my bed. I always take the one closest to the window. The blackout curtains swallow the sun whole and I’m half-asleep before I even take off my shoes.
Thirty minutes later, I wake to the sound of Tanner whistling and the smell of expensive cologne. He’s wearing jeans and a tight white tee, his hair styled with too much pomade.
“Where are you going?” I mumble.
He’s scrolling his phone but looks up at me with a wicked grin.
“Remember those girls from last season we met when we were here? Two locals, both gorgeous, both dying to meet the boys from New York when we were back. They said they’ve got tonight off from bartending and want to hit that new steakhouse I told you about. ”
I roll my eyes. “I’m confident you want to hit something more than just a steakhouse.”
Tanner looks neither ashamed nor proud. “Exactly. I told them I’d bring a teammate. Double date.”
In days past, I would have been all over that, but for some reason, it’s not appealing to me tonight. “Pass.”
He freezes, theatrically wounded. “Pass? Bro, they’re Dallas tens. You can’t pass on a Dallas ten. It’s bad karma.”
I consider his words, do a quick internal reflection. “Yeah… not in the mood.”
“You’re a menace to single professional athletes everywhere.” He tosses a shirt at me. “You need to loosen up. Zero press, zero stress—just red meat and women who don’t give a shit that you take too many penalties.”
“Take them both,” I say, rolling over.
He laughs. “Don’t tempt me.”
“I’m serious. Two girls, one Tanner. Sounds like your ideal wet dream come to life.”
He taps his chin and looks up to the ceiling as he considers. Gaze back to me, he asks, “You sure?”
“Positive.”
He grabs his wallet, his grin returning. “You’re a lost cause, McAvoy. But don’t worry, I’ll eat enough steak for both of us.”
“Do me a favor,” I say, eyes still closed. “Stay out of the team group chat tonight.”
Tanner salutes on his way out. “No promises.”
The door shuts, and silence fills the room. I close my eyes and fall back to sleep.
By the time I wake again, it’s dark outside.
For a moment, I’m disoriented as to where I am but then my stomach growls loud enough to echo, and I slam back into reality.
I check the clock—8:47 p.m. My phone’s full of unread messages, mostly from Tanner, along with several photos of his dinner companions.
They are absolutely Dallas tens but I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything.
Been there, done that more times than I can count.
I throw on a black tee, jeans, and a baseball cap for anonymity. The less recognizable I am, the better. I grab my room key and wallet and head downstairs.
The lobby’s quieter now. A handful of guests at the bar, some suits watching football highlights, and a couple on a date pretending to care about the wine list. I spot an empty stool and head over.
There’s a half-finished drink in front of it with a napkin draped over the glass—a universal sign for taken. So I slide one seat over.
“Steak sandwich, medium rare,” I tell the bartender after perusing a menu. “And a beer. Something local.”
He nods and disappears, not seeming to recognize me, but that’s not all that unusual. In New York, it would be hard to sit here without being approached by fans. But this is Dallas and most aren’t going to recognize an opposing player wearing a ball cap. I relish the peace.
The muted hum of conversation blends with the soft clink of glasses, a transient tranquility you only find in hotel bars, where everyone’s passing through and no one’s trying too hard to stay.
The food comes quickly after the beer, and I remember that service in cities other than New York can actually be speedy.
I’m halfway through my first bite when a voice beside me says, “Guess I should’ve known you’d sit right next to my drink. ”
I look up, and there she is… Daisy Turner.
Hair loose, dark waves brushing her shoulders.
A tailored cream blazer over a black top, subtle gold jewelry.
She looks nothing like she did in the gym—no oversized Vipers tee, no safety-pinned shorts.
Just curves that look too good and the quiet power she exudes that I don’t think I’ve seen in other women.
“Didn’t see your name on it,” I say, eyes drifting up to the TV above the bar.
“There’s a napkin.” She slides onto the stool beside me and peels it off the glass. “Universal symbol for Don’t touch.”
“I thought it meant the bartender’s on break.”
Her mouth curves. “Do you always assume things belong to you until proven otherwise?”
Normally, I would take such a loaded question as a challenge, but my hackles aren’t rising like they usually do. “It’s served me well in the past.”
She takes a sip of her martini and looks up at the TV. I wait for her to ask me another question… to goad. But she remains silent and it puts me on edge.
“What are you doing here?” I finally ask.
“I’m with the team, remember?” she says. “Media obligations. Travel PR. My flight landed just a bit ago.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Langley’s really got you doing the full babysitter circuit, huh?”
“It’s called being thorough.”
“It’s called being a stalker,” I quip.
“Please,” she says, a manicured fingertip toying with the edge of her glass. “If I were stalking you, you’d never know.”
I almost choke on my beer, which is weird… almost no one has the ability to make me laugh or amuse me, except for maybe Tanner. “You always this charming off the clock?”
She twists her neck, lovely blue eyes landing on me. “Only with people who make my job harder.”
It’s tough to look at that simple beauty that absolutely gives off those girl-next-door vibes. I turn back to the TV. “That’s everyone, then.”
“Just you,” she says and takes another slow sip.
For a few minutes, we drink in silence and I eat my steak sandwich, eyes pinned to the football highlights. It’s not comfortable, but it’s not bad either, and not once do I consider picking a fight or trying to assert control over my new jailer.
When she breaks the quiet between us, her voice is soft, almost soothing. “You do realize your public reputation is about one suspension away from implosion, right?”
“Glad we’re keeping it light.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She exhales, frustrated but trying not to show it. “You’re more than just a player, Grizz. You’re a brand for the city and the league. Langley’s invested too much money in you to let you implode on live TV.”
“I don’t care about Langley’s money.”
“Then care about your career.”
I turn toward her, astonished she’d need to say such a thing. “You think I don’t?”
She angles her body to face me. “I think you care about winning and only winning. And when that’s all you care about, everything else becomes collateral damage.”
I ignore the twinge of conscience beneath my ribs. “Funny, that’s what keeps the lights on.”
“That’s what burns them out.” She meets my eyes, steady, unblinking. There’s a bite in her tone that doesn’t sound like a PR rep. It sounds personal. Before I can say anything, she adds softly, “In my exhaustive research on you, I saw you donate a lot of money to the Alzheimer’s Foundation.”
I freeze.
She’s watching me carefully, cataloging every twitch in my expression. “That’s not in any of your press material,” she says. “It’s not even in the Vipers community reports. I only found out because I saw the ledger for a matching grant last year.”
I take a long pull of beer. “So now you’re auditing me?”
“I’m curious why you keep it quiet.”
“Because it’s nobody’s business.”
“You’re right,” she says. “But it’s still a good thing. And most people who do good things don’t go out of their way to hide them.”