The arena parking garage is already buzzing when I arrive. Media trucks, early fans hoping for autographs, the usual circus. I grab my gear bag, catching my reflection in the car window. Fucking magnificent, as always.
“Dex! Dex Malone!”
The shouts start before I’m halfway to the entrance. A group of women dressed like they’re hitting the clubs after the game, phones already recording. I stop, because disappointing fans is bad for business, and these particular fans look like they’d be very grateful for some attention.
“Ladies,” I say, flashing the million-dollar smile. “Looking gorgeous tonight. Here to watch me destroy Chicago?”
They practically vibrate with excitement as I move closer. One of them, a blonde in a modified Puckaneers jersey that barely qualifies as clothing, presses against my side like she’s trying to melt into me.
“This is the best night ever,” she breathes. “You’re even hotter in person.”
“Well, I am pretty spectacular,” I agree, letting her get her selfie. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
“Piper. I’m your biggest fan. I’ve been to every home game this season.”
“Dedication. I like that.” I wink at her phone camera. “Think you could handle being my good luck charm tonight?”
She looks like she might actually faint. “I would do anything for you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
A brunette pushes forward. “Can you score a goal for me tonight?”
“Sweetheart, I’m planning on scoring three. Question is whether you’ll be around after to help me celebrate.”
They dissolve into giggles and I pose for more photos, letting them crowd around me. This is easy—give them just enough attention to make them feel special, just enough flirtation to keep them interested, just enough promise to ensure they’ll be back.
“Dex!” A dad with two kids interrupts the lovefest. “Could you sign these for my boys?”
I shift gears, kneeling down to the kids’ level. The family-friendly version of Dex Malone is just as calculated as the flirty one, but it plays better on social media.
“You guys play hockey?” I ask, signing their jerseys.
The older one nods enthusiastically. “I’m in bantam league. Coach says I have a good shot.”
“That’s awesome. Keep working on it.” I hand the jersey back. “Who’s your favorite player?”
“You,” he says immediately.
“Smart kid. You’ve got good taste.” I ruffle his hair. “Keep practicing, and maybe someday you’ll be half as good as me.”
The dad laughs, taking photos. “Thank you so much. This just made their whole year.”
“What can I say? I’m a generous guy.”
I continue toward the entrance, stopping for more photos, more autographs, more opportunities to remind everyone why I’m the face of this franchise. Each interaction gets the full treatment—the charm that’s made me a marketing department’s wet dream, the personality that sells jerseys and fills seats.
By the time I reach the player entrance, I’ve probably made about fifty new fans and gotten at least a dozen phone numbers slipped into my jacket pocket. Not bad for ten minutes’ work.
The locker room is chaos two hours before puck drop, which is exactly how I like it. Guys getting dressed, talking shit, the familiar energy that turns a group of millionaire athletes into something resembling a team.
“Gentlemen!” I announce as I walk in, arms spread wide. “Your salvation has arrived. Try not to embarrass me out there tonight.”
“Fuck off, Malone,” Varga calls out, not looking up from his skates. “Some of us have been here for twenty minutes already.”
“Some of us don’t need twenty minutes to look this good,” I counter, hanging up my suit with the care it deserves. “Besides, I was doing my civic duty, making dreams come true for the fine women of Seattle.”
“You mean you were signing autographs for puck bunnies,” Johnson says dryly.
