Page 24 of Famous Last Words
“Don’t tell me how to do my fucking job when you can’t even do your own, bro!”
A humorless laugh follows, and I’m pretty sure it’s Rusty. Great.
“My six-year-old daughter could’ve stopped that goal!”
Tossing my jacket back into my locker, I hurry through to the showers to make sure everything’s copacetic, but when I see Dallas and Rusty standing toe to toe, surrounded by the rest of the guys, my brows knit together. What the fuck is going on? And I know this is the shower room, but why the fuck is Dallas just standing there, butt-ass naked?
“Maybe learn how to control a fucking puck.”
Someone laughs and Dallas grins, casually drying his dick with a towel.
Rusty scoffs, glancing back at the crowd they’ve garnered, his eyes spearing me through the steam, and narrowing in a way I’ve become accustomed to. Here we fucking go.
“Yeah, well, maybe if our newstarD-man could pry himself off the boards once in a while, Koslov wouldn’t have even made it over the blue line.”
I snort because yeah, whatever bud. You try having three men target you for the best part of an hour and a half and see how you do. I say nothing though, because I’m in no position to be starting shit with my new captain, considering my recent history.
Dallas throws his thumb in my direction. “You’re talking about the D-man who scored two of our four goals tonight?”
Rusty says nothing.
Dallas scoffs. “The fact that half their team was too busy cornering Mason should’ve meant that you could get through their line easier. Instead, you kept fucking up, turning over the puck, and now you’re doing what you do best—” Grin still in place, Dallas leans closer, his face less than a few inches from Rusty’s as he continues, “Blaming everybody else.”
Rusty pushes Dallas in his chest. His naked chest. And frankly, there’s so much skin on display, it’s starting to get weird up in here. And since no one else seems to be stepping in, I decide to take the lead, shouldering my way through the barricade of onlookers.
“Come on, you guys.” I stand next to Dallas, offering his dick an unimpressed glance and quirking a brow at him which he thankfully takes as a hint, wrapping his towel around his waist.
I throw my hands in the air. “We won. Quit your bitching, and let’s focus on Monday’s game against the Bucks.” I spear Rusty with a pointed look because he’s the goddamn team captain and should know better than to be fighting with his naked goalie.
“Whatever,” Rusty mutters, turning to step into one of the shower stalls.
Dallas looks to me, eyes incredulously wide as he shakes his head. I turn, leading the way back out to the locker room and he follows.
“A guy can’t even enjoy a post-game shower without assholes trying to blame him for their own fuck ups!” Dallas says behind me, and I can tell by the tone of his voice he’s saying it loud enough to get a rise out of Rusty. I roll my eyes.
“You coming for a beer?”
I stop at my locker, shrugging on my suit jacket, trying not to wince at the pain in my side. “Nah. Can’t. Curfew,” I remind him.
“Dude!” Dallas guffaws, slapping my arm. “It’s our first game one win in like…forever. I’m sure they’ll let you off just for one night, considering we wouldn’t have won without you.”
I shake my head although he’s probably right. But the truth is—the truth I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Andy—I’m sober. I have been for more than a month. Not that I ever had an issue with alcohol. Although the media chose to tell a different story. Drugs. Alcohol. Women. You name it, they wrote it. I am the prodigal bad boy of hockey, after all. But what they don’t know, what no one knows, is that I stopped drinking after everything went down because there was one night, when I was drunk and alone, that I found myself standing on the Wabasha Street bridge, staring down at the Mississippi, contemplating shit I never want to think about again in my life. I can’t risk getting to that state of intoxication again; my mom needs me.
“No can do.” I shrug, hitching my bag onto my shoulder, ready or not for the big reveal. “Actually, um, my girl's here. Gonna have a quiet night in, if you know what I mean.” I wink suggestively, trying so hard to keep a straight face when the actual idea of doing anything even remotelysuggestivewith Fran fucking Keller is both nauseating and laughable. Although, I must admit, seeing her tonight on her feet, cheering for me, was kind of cool. And her face up on the Jumbotron when I pointed my stick at her? Fucking priceless.
“Yourgirl?” Dallas spins around, eyes comically wide, gawking at me in a combination of shock and disappointment. “Wait! You have agirlfriend?”
I can’t help but laugh at the tone in his voice when he saysgirlfriendlike it’s a dirty word, as if the sheer notion is absurd and disgusting.
Hitching my bag higher on my shoulder, I nod.
Dallas’s lips twist to the side momentarily before he asks, “She got any hot friends?”
I snort, shaking my head at him. Dude is such a man whore.
“Good game tonight, bro,” Dallas says, clasping his hand with mine and pulling me into a side hug.
I’m fully aware that he’s still only wearing a towel, but I allow it. It almost feels like I’m making a friend. And if I’m being honest, it’s been a long time between friends.Realfriends, at least.
