I keep scrolling. There’s a photo gallery titled “Dex’s Dozen” featuring twelve different women I’ve been linked with in the past year alone. Some I remember. Some I definitely don’t. A few I’m pretty sure I never actually dated, just happened to be photographed near at public events.
“‘Sources close to the player suggest Malone’s commitment issues stem from an inability to mature beyond his playboy lifestyle,’” I continue reading. “‘One former companion, who wished to remain anonymous, described their relationship as purely physical. ‘Dex made it clear from the start that he wasn’t looking for anything serious. It was fun while it lasted, but you always knew you were just passing through.’”
I shove the phone back toward him. “So what’s the alternative to voiding my contract? A fine? Suspension?”
“Consequences,” Roman says flatly. “Real ones this time. Management and Coach are finalizing the details, but let’s just say you’ll be spending significantly less time with lingerie models and significantly more time representing the ‘community values’ section of your contract.”
I groan. “Community service? Really?”
“The PR team is drawing up something special. Designed specifically to teach you some responsibility.” A ghost of a smile flickers across his face—never a good sign with Roman. “You’ll get the full briefing tomorrow.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter.
Roman stands, but pauses before leaving. “One more thing, Malone. Whatever they assign you? Take it seriously. Because if this doesn’t work...” He leaves the sentence hanging, but the implication is clear.
After Roman leaves, I sit alone in the hotel bar, contemplating how quickly life can change course. Forty-eight hours ago, I was Seattle’s golden boy scoring the game-winning goal. Now I’m one step away from being a cautionary tale coaches tell rookies on their first day.
My phone buzzes with a text from my sister, Maggie.
Heard about the Space Needle. Mom’s worried. Call her.
New phone, who dis?
NOT FUNNY. Call her tomorrow or I’m sending all 3 of my children to Seattle to stay with Uncle Dex for the weekend.
That actually makes me laugh. My nieces and nephew are agents of chaos on a good day. On a hangover day? Weapons of mass destruction.
Will call. Promise.
I silence the phone and order another whiskey, even though I know I should stop. Which is when I notice her, a twenty-something blonde, sitting three stools down nursing what looks like not a first glass of wine.
“Rough night?” I ask, moving closer.
She looks up, and I can see she’s been crying. “Parent conferences,” she says with a bitter laugh. “You’d think after five years I’d be used to parents telling me how to do my job.”
“Teacher?”
“Third grade. And you’re...” She tilts her head, studying my face. “Wait. You’re that hockey player. The one who just made the news for all the wrong reasons.”
“Guilty as charged.” I extend my hand. “Dex.”
“Callie.” She shakes it, her grip firm. “So what’s your excuse for drowning your sorrows? Besides the obvious property damage.”
“My team thinks I’m a liability. My family thinks I’m a disappointment. And I’m pretty sure I exist only as tabloid news.”
“Cheers to that,” she says, raising her wine glass. “Here’s to spectacular career failures.”
We clink glasses, and I find myself genuinely smiling for the first time all night. Callie’s funny, sharp, and refreshingly honest about her own problems. When she mentions she could use some company tonight, and I suggest my place has a better view, leaving together feels like the most natural thing in the world.
At least someone’s night is looking up.
The elevator to my penthouse feels smaller than usual, probably because Callie is pressed against me, her hands already working on my shirt buttons.
“This place is incredible,” she breathes against my neck as the doors open directly into my living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the Seattle skyline, all glass and steel and money.
“Thanks,” I mutter, already losing interest. She’s beautiful—they always are—but there’s something perfunctory about this. Like I’m going through the motions because it’s expected, not because I want to.
She’s got her dress half off before we reach the bedroom, and I’m trying to summon enthusiasm for what’s about to happen. Callie’s gorgeous, willing, and clearly knows what she’s doing. This should be exactly what I need after tonight’s disaster.
