The crowd loses its mind. I celebrate like I just won the Stanley Cup, arms raised, gliding past the Chicago bench to make sure they all get a good look at the guy who just made them look like amateurs.
“Nice goal, pretty boy,” their captain chirps as play resumes.
“That’s just the warm-up,” I chirp back. “Wait till I really get going.”
Second period, I feed Rodriguez for a tap-in that he somehow makes look difficult, then score another myself on a power play that’s so pretty the arena video crew will definitely be using it in highlight reels for the next five years.
By the third period, Chicago’s getting desperate. They’re down 4-1, taking stupid penalties, trying to goad me into dropping gloves with their enforcer.
“Come on, Malone,” he says, skating up beside me during a stoppage. “Let’s dance.”
“Sorry, big guy. I don’t fight guys who can’t keep up.” I tap my stick on the ice, grinning. “Besides, I’m too pretty for that shit. Can’t risk messing up this face—the ladies would never forgive me.”
He takes a swing anyway, which I avoid easily, then watch as he gets a misconduct for the attempt. The crowd boos him off the ice while I wave goodbye.
Final horn sounds: 6-2 Seattle. Two goals, three assists. First star of the game, obviously.
“Dex! Over here!” The media scrum descends before I even make it off the ice. “Talk us through that second goal?—”
I give them what they want. The confidence bordering on arrogance, the sound bites that’ll play on SportsCenter, the personality that makes me a marketing department’s dream.
“Tonight was just another day at the office,” I say, helmet tucked under my arm, hair somehow still perfect despite three periods of battle. “Chicago came to play, but unfortunately for them, I came to dominate.”
“That goal in the second period—some are calling it goal of the year.”
“Some are right.” I flash the million-dollar smile. “I’ve been working on that move all season. Figured Chicago was the perfect team to debut it against.”
“Any truth to the rumors about your contract negotiations?”
“I’m focused on playing the best hockey of my career,” I say smoothly. “The rest will take care of itself. This city deserves a champion, and I plan on giving them one.”
“Single women in Seattle want to know—any special lady in your life?”
I wink at the camera. “I’m currently accepting applications. Standards are high, but the position comes with excellent benefits.”
They eat it up, laughing at my jokes, hanging on every word. This is what I do—make them love me, make them need me, make them understand that Dex Malone isn’t just a hockey player, he’s an experience.
The interviews wrap up and I head back to the locker room, adrenaline still pumping through my system. The guys are celebrating, music playing, the loose energy that comes after a dominant win.
“Fucking show-off,” Varga says as I walk in, but he’s grinning.
“Someone’s got to make it look easy,” I reply, starting to strip out of my gear. “Can’t all be defensive specialists who get excited about blocked shots.”
“My blocked shots keep your pretty-boy ass from getting scored on.”
“And my goals keep your defensive lapses from mattering.” I hang up my jersey carefully. “It’s a beautiful partnership.”
My phone’s already blowing up with notifications—fans tagging me on social media, reporters wanting quotes, women sliding into my DMs with congratulations that come with very specific suggestions about how we could celebrate.
This is what success looks like. What being the best looks like. Twenty thousand people chanting my name, highlight reels that’ll play for years, and enough attention to make any man feel like a god.
So why am I thinking about a woman who got nervous just talking to me? Who treated me like any other guy instead of Seattle’s golden boy?
Maybe because she’s the only challenge left in a city full of sure things.
Monday morning teammeeting feels like a punishment for Friday night’s perfection. I roll into the conference room fifteen minutes late because punctuality is for people who aren’t leading the league in scoring, sliding into my usual seat while Coach Barrett gives me his trademark death glare.
“Nice of you to join us, Malone.”
