Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
We’re back at the hotel, where the air is cool and filtered and soft light spills from fancy sconces affixed to the wall on either side of the beds.
The win was huge—statement-making kind of huge—and the energy’s bursting out of Tanner like a busted fire hydrant. Room service plates litter the table as we demolished some thirty-dollar burgers. I had a few cold craft beers but Tanner started with shots of vodka alongside his meal.
He’s currently sprawled across the couch in nothing but a towel, phone in one hand, a french fry in the other. He’s narrating his own postgame highlight reel to whoever’s unfortunate enough to be on the other end. “You should’ve seen it, baby. Bar down, goalie didn’t even move. Pure art. Michelangelo couldn’t have painted that goal better.”
I snort as I plop down on my bed. “Michelangelo didn’t play for the Vipers, dipshit.”
“He would’ve if he could’ve skated backward,” Tanner fires at me.
I shake my head, watching him, half amused, half exhausted. This is contentment that only comes after a win in a hostile arena.
Tanner disappears into the bathroom, music starting up from his travel Bluetooth speaker. It’s loud and with too much bass. He’s whistling as he comes back out shirtless but with jeans on, spritzing himself with a hit of cologne like he’s misting for battle. He pours another shot of vodka and tosses it back with a hiss.
“That shit could knock out a rhino,” I say.
Tanner grins, admiring himself in the mirror, although I can see his eyes are already glassy. He smooths his hair at the temples, fusses with his bangs. “It’s this new line. Custom blend. Got it imported from Milan.” He tugs on a tight-fitting T-shirt and gestures toward the mirror. “Tell me I don’t look like trouble.”
“Trouble is scared of you.”
Tanner laughs, adding gel to his hair. “That’s the point, my man. Dallas doesn’t know what’s about to hit it.”
He studies his reflection one last time, then sprays another puff of cologne into the air and walks through it.
“Christ, Tanner, you’re gonna fumigate the whole floor.”
“Confidence is a scent,” Tanner says with a smirk. “And mine’s intoxicating.”
“More like toxic.”
Tanner grabs his wallet, keys, and the last fry from his plate. “The Dallas nightlife’s calling, and we don’t make her wait.” He points at me on his way to the door. “You ready?”
I glance around the room. It’s luxurious and quiet… a fleeting calm after the storm. The kind that only comes when the scoreboard’s in your favor and tomorrow’s hangover hasn’t hit yet. I could just kick back, watch a movie and chill out. I’ve certainly done that many times after a hard game.
However, I was taught growing up that victory’s not meant to be quiet. It needs noise, motion, somewhere to burn itself off. Winning is all that matters and it’s almost sacrilege not to celebrate it. So, I make the executive decision… Dallas nightlife, here I come.
I don’t bother changing out of the jeans and T-shirt that I switched into after we got back to the hotel. Unlike Tanner, I don’t obsessively check my hair, nor do I spray myself down in designer cologne. Rather, I grab my wallet and we head downstairs. The lobby’s half-asleep, a concierge yawning behind the desk, a few guests drifting in from their own nights. Outside, the air is hot as a furnace, even after midnight. Texas and heat walk arm in arm all year.
A yellow cab idles at the curb, engine rumbling, and we slide into the back seat.
“Downtown,” Tanner tells the driver. “Club Nova.”
He nods, pulls into traffic, and the city unfolds around us.
Dallas at night is a whole different beast. Neon bleeding across glass towers and music leaking from rooftop bars. Every street feels like it’s chasing something, but it’s one of my favorite places to hang out.
Through the window, I catch flashes of it all… girls in short dresses laughing too loudly on sidewalks, guys in pressed shirts checking their reflections in tinted windows, a food truck line snaking around the block. This is restless energy masquerading as freedom, a complete contradiction to where I’m from.
I grew up where nights were silent except for the sound of wind cutting across the Saskatchewan prairie and the one-lane highway that never led anywhere. My hometown had a single gas station sign, a bar with a broken jukebox, and the old rink’s lights shut off at ten because the town couldn’t afford the power bill to keep them running all night.
We didn’t have skyscrapers. We had massive grain silos.
And yet, sitting here, watching Dallas burn bright around me, I feel nostalgia twist in my chest. Not for my hometown itself, but for how small it made the world feel. You didn’t need much—a stick, a puck, a frozen pond, and a reason to keep going, which in my case was often my father screaming at me to do better and work harder.