Grizz
The postgame buzz still courses through my blood hours after our victory against Dallas. I’m pumped with adrenaline from the win… and all the caffeine from the locker room espresso machine.
We’re back at the hotel, where the air is cool and filtered and soft light spills from fancy sconces affixed to the wall on either side of the beds.
The win was huge—statement-making kind of huge—and the energy’s bursting out of Tanner like a busted fire hydrant. Room service plates litter the table as we demolished some thirty-dollar burgers. I had a few cold craft beers but Tanner started with shots of vodka alongside his meal.
He’s currently sprawled across the couch in nothing but a towel, phone in one hand, a french fry in the other.
He’s narrating his own postgame highlight reel to whoever’s unfortunate enough to be on the other end.
“You should’ve seen it, baby. Bar down, goalie didn’t even move.
Pure art. Michelangelo couldn’t have painted that goal better. ”
I snort as I plop down on my bed. “Michelangelo didn’t play for the Vipers, dipshit.”
“He would’ve if he could’ve skated backward,” Tanner fires at me.
I shake my head, watching him, half amused, half exhausted. This is contentment that only comes after a win in a hostile arena.
Tanner disappears into the bathroom, music starting up from his travel Bluetooth speaker.
It’s loud and with too much bass. He’s whistling as he comes back out shirtless but with jeans on, spritzing himself with a hit of cologne like he’s misting for battle.
He pours another shot of vodka and tosses it back with a hiss.
“That shit could knock out a rhino,” I say.
Tanner grins, admiring himself in the mirror, although I can see his eyes are already glassy.
He smooths his hair at the temples, fusses with his bangs.
“It’s this new line. Custom blend. Got it imported from Milan.
” He tugs on a tight-fitting T-shirt and gestures toward the mirror. “Tell me I don’t look like trouble.”
“Trouble is scared of you.”
Tanner laughs, adding gel to his hair. “That’s the point, my man. Dallas doesn’t know what’s about to hit it.”
He studies his reflection one last time, then sprays another puff of cologne into the air and walks through it.
“Christ, Tanner, you’re gonna fumigate the whole floor.”
“Confidence is a scent,” Tanner says with a smirk. “And mine’s intoxicating.”
“More like toxic.”
Tanner grabs his wallet, keys, and the last fry from his plate. “The Dallas nightlife’s calling, and we don’t make her wait.” He points at me on his way to the door. “You ready?”
I glance around the room. It’s luxurious and quiet… a fleeting calm after the storm. The kind that only comes when the scoreboard’s in your favor and tomorrow’s hangover hasn’t hit yet. I could just kick back, watch a movie and chill out. I’ve certainly done that many times after a hard game.
However, I was taught growing up that victory’s not meant to be quiet. It needs noise, motion, somewhere to burn itself off. Winning is all that matters and it’s almost sacrilege not to celebrate it. So, I make the executive decision… Dallas nightlife, here I come.
I don’t bother changing out of the jeans and T-shirt that I switched into after we got back to the hotel.
Unlike Tanner, I don’t obsessively check my hair, nor do I spray myself down in designer cologne.
Rather, I grab my wallet and we head downstairs.
The lobby’s half-asleep, a concierge yawning behind the desk, a few guests drifting in from their own nights.
Outside, the air is hot as a furnace, even after midnight.
Texas and heat walk arm in arm all year.
A yellow cab idles at the curb, engine rumbling, and we slide into the back seat.
“Downtown,” Tanner tells the driver. “Club Nova.”
He nods, pulls into traffic, and the city unfolds around us.
Dallas at night is a whole different beast. Neon bleeding across glass towers and music leaking from rooftop bars. Every street feels like it’s chasing something, but it’s one of my favorite places to hang out.
Through the window, I catch flashes of it all…
girls in short dresses laughing too loudly on sidewalks, guys in pressed shirts checking their reflections in tinted windows, a food truck line snaking around the block.
This is restless energy masquerading as freedom, a complete contradiction to where I’m from.
I grew up where nights were silent except for the sound of wind cutting across the Saskatchewan prairie and the one-lane highway that never led anywhere.
My hometown had a single gas station sign, a bar with a broken jukebox, and the old rink’s lights shut off at ten because the town couldn’t afford the power bill to keep them running all night.
We didn’t have skyscrapers. We had massive grain silos.
And yet, sitting here, watching Dallas burn bright around me, I feel nostalgia twist in my chest. Not for my hometown itself, but for how small it made the world feel.
You didn’t need much—a stick, a puck, a frozen pond, and a reason to keep going, which in my case was often my father screaming at me to do better and work harder.
Now everything’s bigger and louder. The contracts, the crowds, the expectations. The city lights flash against the cab window, turning my reflection unrecognizable—the grown-up version of a kid who used to spend hours taping his sticks just like the pros and dreamed about making it out.
The cab stops at a red light near a row of sleek sports cars parked outside a rooftop club.
The driver glances at us in the mirror. “This the spot?”
Tanner’s head pops up from his phone and he looks at the building. “Looks like,” he says, exiting with a crooked smile. “And this guy will pay for the ride.”
Shaking my head, I pay with a generous tip and get out, stepping back into the Dallas heat.
The bouncer lifts the velvet rope, knowing who we are as we bypass the line and I follow Tanner inside the club. The bass is seismic, vibrating up through the soles of my boots. Strobe lights flash in manic bursts, slicing through fog and perfume and sweat.
I quickly tag several Vipers and it looks like our crew has taken over the VIP section, roped off with a velvet cord that’s doing a terrible job of keeping anyone out.
They’re standing on couches, fists pumping to whatever remix is shaking the walls.
Girls in dresses that could pass as suggestions more than clothing are draped over them, laughing too loud and looking a little too desperate for the attention.
Deacon’s in the corner, sleeves rolled up, leaning against a banquette with a couple brunettes locked in on him. He’s the sun and they’re orbiting satellites. He’s doing that quiet-smile thing that works very well for him—confident, amused, dangerous in a slow-burn way.
I peel off to hit the bar for a beer and by the time I join the VIP section, Tanner’s already shirtless and dancing with a hot blond. No clue where they came from but he’s wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses, and he has half a bottle of tequila in his hand from which he takes several long pulls.
Christ, he’s going to puke tonight… I just know it.
Tanner spots me walking toward them and beckons me over with a furious wave. “Grizz! The myth! The menace! Come join us.”
The sunglasses slip down his nose and his eyes are wild and unmoored.
“Nice of you to dress up,” I shout over the music.
“Fewer clothes, more fun!” he yells back, grabbing a shot glass and filling it up. He hands it to one of the blonds and yells, “Come on! Drink with me! Celebrate, baby!”
I take the bottle from his hand before he drops it. The room tilts in color, pink, electric blue, ultraviolet white. The beat is relentless. I don’t party quite as hard as Tanner does, but when in Rome…
I lift the bottle, intent on drinking it straight from the source.
Then I see her.
Daisy.
At first, I think I’m imagining it—the way she moves through the crowd, unhurried and composed.
She’s different from the other women, forsaking ass-bearing minidresses and opting for a halter top paired with sleek black pants.
She has delicate gold hoops in her ears and a thin chain at her throat—subtle and understated, except for the sky-high heels.
She walks with an aura that makes people look twice.
Especially me.
Daisy notices me noticing her and I refuse to look away. She angles in on me, weaving through the mass of bodies with graceful ease.
I brace for a lecture because I know it’s coming. Nothing good ever comes from professional athletes partying after a win.
“Relax,” she says when she reaches me, raising her voice over the music. “I’m not here to kill your night.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Her mouth twitches. “Langley wanted me to check in, that’s all. He said you’d probably go out here afterwards. You win a big game, you celebrate. I get it.” She hesitates, eyes scanning the chaos behind me. “I just need to make sure you don’t end up trending for the wrong reasons by sunrise.”
I smirk. “So you are here to ruin my fun.”
“I’m here to make sure you get to keep having it.”
I grab an empty shot glass off the table and prepare to pour. “Fine,” I say. “If you’re gonna babysit, you might as well do it while I drink.”
Tanner cheers from behind, wrapping his arm around my neck. I nearly fall over and push him back with a laugh while Daisy watches with a smirk.
Tanner grabs the bottle from me. “That’s my boy!” He pours until the glass overflows and some spills onto my hand. “To fuckin’ wins and to—shit, what rhymes with wins?”
“Sins?” I offer.
He squints. “Never heard of it.” He laughs, leans in close, his breath reeking of Patrón. “You know what, Grizz? I’m gettin’ blasted tonight, man.”
“You’re already blasted,” I reply dryly. “You got a head start at the hotel.”
“Right… like I said… blasted. Like, nuclear. I won’t even remember tomorrow.”
“I’m not sure you’ll remember next week,” I mutter.