Page 111 of The One Night Dash
I roll off her, sticky and satisfied, but she moves with me, presses in close, nose tucked against my neck, limbs tangled with mine.
“Happy Thanksgiving, sweets.”
“Mmhmm.” She smiles when her hand finds my chest, tracing lazy, idle circles around my nipple. “Thankful, grateful, blessed.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
DASH
Epilogue
The mic’s not theweird part. I’ve sat in front of enough of them. What’s weird is who’s on the other side.
“Welcome to today’s episode ofOn the Line,” Briar says, smooth and polished now that she’s found her stride. My little sister, who started this podcast to pad her internship applications and somehow turned it into a legit platform. “Today, we’re stepping off campus and into the pro world. Our guest needs no introduction. My brother, Dash Sterling, is a winger for Brooklyn and is apparently having the best season of his career, four games from the cup.”
“Hey, B,” I say, leaning toward the mic, grin tugging at my mouth.
“Don’t ‘B’ me like you know me like that. This is serious journalism. You’re supposed to be nervous and worried, I’m going to ask some hard questions.”
“It’s Tuesday,” I deadpan.
She groans. “Okay, fine. What do you think has made this your best season yet?”
“Focus and commitment,” I answer without hesitation. “Always been part of me, but now it’s deeper. I’m not just playing for me anymore. I’m playing for the team, for my family … for Noelle.”
Briar hums knowingly. “So your routine’s different?”
“Yeah. Bed at the same time, up at the same time. Eating cleaner. Training smarter. But it’s not just the schedule. It’s having a partner who keeps me accountable. Noelle doesn’t let me slack. She makes sure I work hardandlive easy.”
“Live easy? Explain.”
“Sure. I know the person I wake up to every day and go to sleep with at night, values me as much as I value her, which in turn makes me value life a little more. At the end of the day, I’m not just Dash Sterling, hockey player. I’m Dash, her guy. The one hauling trash bags before Ernest and Hemingway rip them open.”
Briar laughs. “For the listeners, Ernest and Hemingway are cats, not teammates.”
“They’d still hit harder than some defensemen.”
“Go deeper. What else has changed?”
I chuckle. “I’m thinking differently about life. Have a broader perspective. It’s not all money or future plans. It’s what she’s reading, what’s making her smile like that. So we read a book a week.”
“Ooo, that’s rough.”
“It’s rough when it’s listed on a syllabus and you have to. Not rough when you know that, tonight, you’re gonna eat pie and chat about these complex characters in messed-up situations that figure it out in about four hundred pages, or a historical fiction book that makes you look at a situation different than you were taught.”
“So, a private book club?”
“I mean, sure?”
“Why sure? Why not?”
I laugh. “When we’re not talking books and hockey, we’re planning a future, dreaming of what we want and what we can do for those we love.”
“And others.”
“Always give a little more than you think you should, but don’t drain the reserve.”
“You’re talking money?”
