Page 89 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat. “I got time to finish my beer though.”

Gagnon pouts. “I want to get laid tonight.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty of lingering puck bunnies willing to go home with a goalie,” Diego says.

“Yes, but they are boring, no? I want excitement, newness. I want a French girl.”

“Can’t help you there,” Cooper says. “But there’s a pretty brunette at the bar looking our way. Maybe she’ll do?”

“Hmm,” Gagnon murmurs, showing interest. “She’s very pretty. Excusez-moi, les gars.”

We watch him walk over and chat up the girl. As the guys discuss the game, I finish my beer, throw some money on the table, and make my excuses to leave.

I can’t wait to get home and talk to Trav again. It’s the highlight of my whole damn day.

THIRTY-SIX

SHOW

“Dude, you’re gonna have to start sharing that funky-ass gum with the whole team if you’re going to keep playing like this.” Klaussen shoulder checks me playfully on our way back into the locker room.

I pull off my helmet and shake out my sweat-drenched hair. I’m way past due for a haircut, but I’ve been playing so damn well since Chicago two months ago that I don’t want to jinx it.

“Sure. I’m still on my bacon flavor kick since it’s been working for me. Hold on, I’ll get you a stick to try.” I don’t bother actually reaching into my bag when I get to my locker because I already know the face Klaussen is pulling without having to look.

He’s a gum purist. Poor guy.

I’m not about to tell him or any of the other guys that if I’m being really honest about it, I don’t think it’s the gum or the haircut that had me out there one goal shy of doing the nearly impossible—scoring a double hat trick. Five goals in a single game is still pretty damn good though. It’s not the pre-game video chats with Beau either, although I do fucking love those and I won’t rule out seeing his perfect O-face being a contributing factor. But the truth of it is, I’m just more determined than I’ve ever been in my career. I want this more than the paycheck or the attention from the fans. Hell, I want it more than the championship cup.

I shake off my gloves and start peeling out of my uniform, shedding the heavy pads and sweat-soaked compression clothes underneath. I’m not afraid to stroke my own ego a little bit by noticing how damn good my abs look all toned and glistening. Let’s be real, I always look jacked, but I’ve been hitting the gym just as hard as I’ve been hitting the ice lately, and it’s paying off.

I pull my phone out of the side pocket of my bag and double tap the power button to bring my camera right up. I snap a quick picture of the beads of sweat matting down my dark happy trail, then press the button to text it to Beau.

“Are you seriously sexting in the locker room?” Basilio calls me out immediately.

“Blame your mom, she’s the one who keeps begging me to send pics,” I shout back, mentally checking out of the banter before I’ve even finished my sentence thanks to a text notification from my agent, Mika. Girl is a shark and I’m praying like hell that this text is what I’m hoping it is.

I called her the minute I got home from Chicago almost eight weeks ago and told her what I wanted. She sounded surprised, but didn’t argue with me other than to warn me that technically no other teams can make a deal with me until my contract is officially up, but that she’d see what she could do to get the ball rolling under the radar.

My heart pounds wildly and my hands tremble with nerves. My finger hovers over the notification icon, but I can’t make myself press it. What if it’s a no? This is my one Hail Mary pass, and if it misses the goal, we’re shit out of luck.

I shove my phone back into my bag without looking at it. If it’s bad news, I don’t want to read it in the locker room and have to hold my shit together. And if it’s good news… well, I’d rather not read that in public either.

I finish undressing and hurry through my shower. As soon as I step out with my towel wrapped around my hips and clean water dripping off of me instead of sweat, Coach Hall’s voice booms through the locker room.

“Showalter, they’re asking for you at the presser.”

I hold back a groan. Seriously, tonight? I usually live for this shit, winking at the journalists and flashing my million-dollar smile for the cameras, but not when the one text that could determine the next five years of my life, maybe my whole damn future, is waiting on my phone. Not like I have a choice though.

“Should I throw on a suit first or you think they want to get an early start on this year’s Athlete’s Undressed issue?”

Coach rolls his eyes and leaves without comment. Guess he’d prefer I go with the suit.

I glance at the pocket of my bag where the bulge of my phone rests every ten seconds or so while I get dressed and towel dry my hair one last time before running my fingers through it and calling it good enough. Fuck, I want to look.

“Showalter,” Coach barks again. “They’re not going to wait for you all night.”

“They won’t? You think they’ll interview the other star forward who scored five goals in a row tonight if I take too long?” I snark, then flash him a playful grin so he won’t think I’m being too much of an asshole. It’s not his fault that for the first time in my life, the last place I want to be is here.