Page 3 of Chips & Checks
I shake my head and hunch lower in my chair. “I meant what you were saying about the rules. You know, not doing relationships?”
Briggs regards me. “I guess it got old. Lonely, too. I met that one woman, and I realized that she meant more to me than any number of one-night stands. That I’d rather spend a night on the couch watching some dumb movie with her than wake up with a stranger whose name I don’t remember.”
He leans back, thoughtful. “The little stuff—the way she laughs, the way she tucks her feet under mine when she’s cold—that ends up meaning more than the wildest night with someone who doesn’t know a damn thing about you.”
Briggs talks about watching dumb movies and laughing with his wife, and suddenly, I see Dad pulling Mom into another kitchen slow dance, forgetting everything and everyone else. No. I won’t be like that. I can’t.
Still, I consider his words for a long moment. “Yeah, no. I have rules. And the woman who’d make me break all my rules doesn’t exist.”
Briggs’s eyebrows shoot toward the ceiling. “Wow, kid. You’re the kind of guy I’ve warned my daughters about.”
I hold up both my hands in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t worry. I keep my extracurricular activities private.”
“Well, that’s your business, as long as you follow the morality clause in your contract.” The warning in his voice is clear and cold.
I sit up straight. “It’s not like that, sir. I would never take advantage of someone. That would go against the rules. My rules, I mean.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You’re saying that like you have them written down.”
“I do,” I assure him.
Whatever tension was in the air just now eases. Was he really worried that I’d make a move on one of his daughters? Why the hell would I want to sleep with the daughter of the Director of Player Acquisitions for my new team, anyway? That sounds like a recipe for disaster.
We move on to other topics, and Briggs gives me a tour of the facility. It’s nicer than I thought it would be—sleek locker rooms with mood lighting, spa-grade hydrotherapy tubs, a cryo chamber, two private chef stations, and an altitude chamber that feels more like something out of NASA than the NHL. There’s even a meditation pod lounge, though I’d bet half the guys use it for naps.
No surprise. Dante Giovanetti doesn’t just build teams—he builds legacies. And legacies don’t sweat over budgets.
Maybe with a player like me, they’ll stand a better chance this season. I imagine what it would be like to get my hands on the Stanley Cup. To go all the way to the top, even if it’s only once.
I smile at the thought. Who needs a relationship when I have a dream that big?
“Any more questions before we call it quits?” Briggs asks at the end of our tour.
“I’ve got one that isn’t work-related,” I admit. “Can you point me to a bar that isn’t on the Strip? One where I can get some good food and not be mobbed.”
“Oh, sure.” Briggs digs through his desk to hand me a business card with a QR code on one side and the wordsThePuck Dropsplashed in fancy font across the other. “That’ll get you a free drink, too. The owner’s an old Venom player. Ever hear of Cooper Harrison?”
“Oh, yeah.” I bob my head and take the card. “I didn’t know he owned a bar.”
“Technically, it’s a restaurant. We spend a lot of time there as a team. And don’t worry, hockey players don’t get bothered there, though I’m not sure people around here will recognize you yet. Don’t worry, they’ll be screaming your name soon enough.”
“Er, thanks.” I lift the card in a wave. “I’ll check it out, then. It’s close to where I’m staying.”
“Sergio not putting you up at the Mona Lisa?”
I shake my head. “He offered, but I wanted to stay somewhere closer to where I’ll be living, so I can check out the vibe of the area.”
It stings that he thinks hockey fans might not recognize me. After all, as a former top draft pick and one of the superstars of the NHL, signing me is a huge deal for the Venom, but okay, Vegas is probably teeming with celebrities. He’s right about one thing: once they see me play, they’ll know exactly who I am.
The bar turns out to be really close to my new condo. My hotel is situated in Serenity Shores, a planned community adjacent to a man-made lake. Because nothing says “start fresh” like synthetic lakefront real estate. I’m still waiting on the paperwork to be finalized for my unit. They’re more like what we call townhouses back in Minnesota, with more than one story and front entrances. I head back to my hotel room to change before walking to the bar, with the drink ticket tucked in my pocket.
Even though we’re off the beaten tourist path, The Puck Drop is pretty busy. I sidle my way between the tables of diners and head straight toward the bar. As I pass, I take note of thecannolis being served to a trio of women. They look amazing. Most of the entree items seem to be Italian fusion, all of which looks homemade. No wonder the place is so busy. I look forward to carb-loading here in the future.
When I finally make it to the bar, the bartender barely looks my way. He’s mixing drinks with the speed of a madman, though his implacable expression suggests that this is a fairly standard night for him.
“Excuse me?” I try to flag him down. He darts past me to the ticket machine and pulls off a long string of orders. “Excuse me…” I try again, but he’s already on to the next task, which involves flutes of some fizzy yellow drink I can’t identify.
I’m about to try again when a figure pops up at my elbow. “Hey, Joey, can I get a drink?”
