The final thing that has my jaw hanging low is how he walks in with his head held up and his chest thrown out with the confidence of a man who knows he’s going to be welcomed even if he wasn’t invited. Not one of us would dare try to kick him out.
I actually wouldn’t want to. Everything I’ve seen about Dominik Carlson tells me he’s different from any other team owner out there. I could cite example after example where he has gone out on a limb or done something special for one of the team members. He’s personally invested in us. He may not be on the ice doing battle with us day in and day out, but I think it’s safe to say we all feel his presence there with us.
Carlson makes the rounds, stepping in on subgroups of people, shaking hands and clapping backs. He’s got a billion-dollar smile that keeps him rolling in hot women. I’m sure the fact he’s actually a billionaire doesn’t hurt, either. While I’m a dude and normally don’t notice such things, I would have to say he was blessed with good genes.
He’s a total stud.
Erik comes up behind Bishop and me, throwing his arms around our shoulders. “Can you believe Carlson showed up?”
I take my attention off the owner, grinning at my teammate. “He certainly marches to the beat of his own drum.”
Erik nods, then glances at his watch. “I think I’m going to head out.”
Under his breath, Bishop mumbles, “Pussy whipped.”
“Goddamn right I am,” Erik says with a cheesy grin. “Why would I want to hang out with you losers when I can be at home with Blue?”
Bishop sighs, then empties his drink. “I guess I should head out, too.”
I glare at my best friend. “Don’t you even think about it. Bros before hos.”
“Call Brooke a ho again and I will punch your teeth down your throat,” Bishop growls.
We stare at each other a long moment before we both burst out laughing.
“Come on, dude… Stay out with me tonight,” I cajole. “We never hang like this anymore.”
This is absolutely true. While I’d never begrudge Bishop and Erik falling in love and settling down, it sucks being the lone wolf these days. I could try to bond harder with Tacker—who I believe will remain single forever given his past—but that seems near impossible to me these days with the way he’s acting.
Before Bishop can answer, Dominik Carlson himself walks up to our small group. He smiles, shakes our hands, and asks if we’re having a good time.
“It’s the best of times,” Erik replies with a grin. “But what are you doing here?”
I cringe slightly, and Bishop rolls his eyes. Erik isn’t known for his tact.
Carlson laughs—a big, booming one that tells us he is amused by his player—and shrugs. “I heard through the grapevine the rookie party was going down tonight, and I didn’t have any better plans. Thought I would check it out.”
And there it is.
As simple as that.
Our team’s owner didn’t have anything better to do so he hopped a private plane—he owns several—and flew from Los Angeles to Phoenix to have a few drinks with his players.
When I look at it like that, it doesn’t seem to be that big of a deal. Although I certainly hope if any of the rookies have paid prostitutes in here tonight, they keep that shit on the down low. I’ll go out on a limb and say Carlson would most definitely not like that.
“Well, let me finish making the rounds so I can order up the most expensive drink they have,” Carlson says with an evil smile.
We all laugh because that’s exactly what’s expected at rookie parties.
But then he leans in so no one else hears and murmurs, “But between us, I’m probably going to put a little money on the tab to help the lads out.”
Erik chuckles, not afraid to ask the nosy questions. “Oh yeah, how much?”
Dominik’s teeth flash, and he gives a slight shrug. “Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? How hard do you guys party?”
Erik throws his hands up in mock surrender. “I have no clue these days. I’m a taken man. And with that, I am out of here.”
Carlson reaches his hand out and shakes Erik’s, who then makes a prompt exit.
“I’ll catch you guys later for a drink,” Carlson says as he looks around for his next group of players to go talk to.
After he walks off, I turn to Bishop. “Stay out tonight, dude. Don’t turn all grandpa on me.”
Bishop’s gaze flicks past me a moment, eyes widening slightly, and then his smile turns practically gleeful. “Oh, I’m not leaving now. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“Miss what?” I mutter as I turn to take in what has his attention.
And just fuck me.
Into the bar comes Willow and Regan, both dressed in incredibly short dresses. I ignore Willow because she is her own woman and if I ever tried to get her to wear something more sensible, she’d kick me in the nuts.