But as she pulls me down onto the bed, all I can think about is that tabloid article. “Dex’s Dozen.” Twelve different women in twelve months. And here I am, about to make it thirteen.
Afterward, as Callie dozes against my chest, I stare at the ceiling and feel absolutely nothing. No satisfaction, no connection, just the familiar hollow ache that follows these encounters. She’ll be gone in the morning and we’ll both pretend this meant something it didn’t.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A notification from Instagram.VictoriaCarhart tagged you in a story.
I ignore it. More buzzing. A text from a number I don’t recognize.
Saw the news about the Space Needle. You wild Call me.
Another buzz. Another notification. The constant stream of women who think breaking headlines make me more attractive, not less.
Callie stirs against me. “You okay? You seem tense.”
“Just thinking,” I say.
“About what?” She traces patterns on my chest with her fingernail.
About how empty this feels. About how I’m thirty-two years old and this is all I have to show for it. About how Roman looked at me tonight like I was already a lost cause.
“Nothing important,” I lie.
She falls back asleep, but I stay awake, staring at the city lights and wondering when exactly my life became such a fucking cliché. The rich athlete with too much money and too little sense. The guy who can score goals but can’t score anything meaningful off the ice.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s an email notification from a gossip blog: “BREAKING: Space Needle Scandal Photos Inside!”
I don’t need to open it to know what I’ll find. Photos of me leaving the hotel with Alessandra, Katerina, and Olivia. Photos of security escorting us out. Probably photos of me signing autographs afterward, grinning like the whole thing was one big joke.
By morning, this will be everywhere. Sports blogs, social media, probably the local news. Another chapter in the ongoing saga of Dex Malone’s spectacular lack of judgment.
Callie leaves at dawn with a kiss on the cheek and promises about ‘doing this again soon’ that we both know are bullshit. My condo feels even emptier after she’s gone. Thirty-two floors above the city, surrounded by expensive furniture I never use and art I bought because someone told me it was “investment quality.”
This is my life. This is what years of professional hockey and more money than I know what to do with has gotten me. A revolving door of beautiful women who see me as a conquest, a team that’s running out of patience with my bullshit, and a reputation that’s becoming more toxic by the month.
The worst part? I’m not even sure I know how to be anything else anymore.
I make coffee in my pristine kitchen and flip on the morning news, already dreading what I’ll see. Sure enough, there’s my face splashed across the sports segment. “Hockey Star’s Space Needle Stunt” runs across the bottom of the screen while footage of me and the models plays on repeat.
“Seattle’s Dex Malone is making headlines again,” the anchor says with barely concealed amusement, “but not for his performance on the ice.”
My phone starts ringing. Management. Press. Probably my mother, who’s going to pretend she’s not disappointed while asking pointed questions about when I’m going to “find a nice girl and settle down.”
I silence it all and head for the shower. Whatever consequences Roman mentioned are coming whether I’m ready or not. Time to face the music for last night’s spectacular display of poor judgment.
The coffee shop near the arena is my usual pre-meeting ritual. Nothing says “I’m taking this seriously” like showing up with artisanal lattes for the entire PR team. Bribery via caffeine – a tactic that’s served me well through eight years of occasionally spectacular poor judgment.
I’m scrolling through my order list when I see a slightly familiar woman ahead of me in line.
“Large oat milk latte, no sugar.”
Copper hair. Curves for days. It’s her – the woman whose coffee I destroyed a few weeks ago.
I step up behind her just as she’s reaching for her wallet. “I’ve got this one,” I tell the barista, sliding my card across before she can protest.
She turns, and I catch that moment of recognition followed immediately by wariness. “You again.”
“Me again.” I flash my most charming smile. “Though I promise I’m much less dangerous when I’m not in motion.”
“That remains to be seen.” She steps aside but doesn’t leave, watching as I rattle off my usual team order. “Four coffees, two pastries, and what appears to be enough caffeine to power a small aircraft. Big meeting?”
