Page 62 of The One Night Dash
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 timewe 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, shoutinginsults 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.
