Page 5 of Bad Teammate
I chuckled softly. “Derek Reaves.”
She opened her tiny sequined purse, fished out her phone, and quickly tapped away at the screen. I glanced over her shoulder and watched as she typed into her browser:derek reaves dallas devils.
“Wow.” I laughed. “You’ve never heard of me, have you?”
“Don’t take it personally,” she said.
My teammate, Jean-Gabriel Parisi, sat with his arm around his girlfriend, Eva. He raised his glass to me. “Welcome to the club, Reavo! Hey, at least you had a good run.”
Google returned her search results, and she tapped the first link with her thumb. My team picture appeared on her screen.
“So? Do I check out?” I joked.
“You do.” Satisfied, she tucked the phone away in her clutch and smiled at me.
“I’m glad,” I said. “Imagine if you were booty dancing with some regular Joe all this time.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. I just wanted to be sure that you’reactuallyon the team, and not one of the creepers riding along in the players’ entourage or something, you know? I’ve been duped before, that’s all.”
Duped?
“I’ve been a Devil for ten years now, doll,” I said. “I wear the A.”
The A stitched on the front of my jersey stood for Alternate Captain. To wear a letter was an honor bestowed only to the team’s chosen leaders. That was why Coach askedme to put Niko up in my penthouse—to mentor the kid, show him how a true professional lives, and ultimately help him reach his superstar potential.
She shrugged. “Sorry, I’m not a huge hockey fan. I only know the big names—like Niko and, um, oh yeah, Big D.”
One of the other girls at our table leaned forward to share some juicy gossip. “Did you hear Big D is taken now?”
“Ugh, I know,” my girl said. “Such a shame.”
I retrieved my arm from her shoulder. “Yeah. Big D found the love of his life. What a damn shame,” I grumbled sarcastically. “The hell’s wrong with you girls, anyway?”
“Jeez! Relax, Derek.” She grabbed my arm and made me wrap it around her shoulder again. “It’s just a joke. You don’t have to get all pissy.”
The redhead sitting in Vaughnsy’s lap decided to weigh in. “Yeah, dude, you need to chill. You’re tall, rich, and famous. That’s all we care about. So what’s your problem?”
The blonde who was sucking face with Mikey Vedros briefly tore herself away just to loudly declare, “That’s why I love athletes—you get the whole package. Plus, they’realwayssotall.”
“Hey! That reminds me of my favorite joke,” my girl said. “What do you call a hot guy under six-feet?”
“I dunno, what?” one of the other girls asked.
“Afriend!”
Everyone at the table, including my teammates, exploded into laughter.
Everyone laughed but me.
Maybe I’m getting older. Maybe all the hits I’ve taken over the years knocked a few screws loose in my head. Hell, maybe the game has changed—the dating game, that is.
But I didn’t laugh because I didn’t think it was funny. Instead, all I could think was,is that really all that matters to you?
Being tall, rich, and famous?
And even if thatwasall that mattered to these girls—so what? Why the fuckdidIcare? I had all that. I was six-foot-four. I’d made millions. I couldn’t go anywhere in Dallas without being recognized … well, anywhere but Club Plush, apparently.
So why did it burn?
