Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I step forward and hold out my hand, then realize he probably doesn’t want to shake it because I just finished peeing. I drop it and wipe my palm on the back of my shorts.
The man stares at me in annoyance.
“And you are?” I prompt. Ann Marie merely watches, ready to bludgeon him.
“Coen,” he says curtly, slipping the buds back into his ears. “And you’re trespassing. Stay off my land.”
And with that, he takes off running right past us. We both turn and watch him easily navigate the trail, avoiding large roots and uneven areas.
Jesus… I can barely walk these trails without twisting an ankle. That’s some skill.
“Did you see those abs?” Ann Marie whispers.
“Holy eight-pack, Batman,” I whisper back. Not that he can hear us. He’s long gone.
“But rude.”
“So rude.”
“But hot, right?” she asks for clarification.
“Very hot.”
We bust out laughing, and she sadly offers the empty wine bottle. “I dumped it to use as a weapon.”
“You bitch,” I exclaim. “And I could use some now. The man caught me peeing, and I couldn’t get my pants up, and then I fell over, and shit, Ann Marie… I’m wearing granny panties.”
My best friend in the world… my closet ally… snickers. “I would have paid money to see that.”
I elbow her hard and roll my eyes. “Come on. Let’s pack up and go to my house. I’ve got another bottle in the fridge.”
CHAPTER 3
Coen
Wiping the shower steam from the mirror above the sink, I take in my reflection and run my fingers through my hair. It’s getting long.
I think I’m liking it just fine, which really means I can’t be bothered to go into town and get it cut.
Turning my head left, then right, I rub the beard I’ve been growing for the past two months and realize it’s time to let it go.
And it’s not just because the playoffs are over.
Yes, I might have subconsciously been letting it grow out as I watched the playoffs progress while holed up in my Coudersport cabin. A lot of that was simple laziness, but some of it was habit. I’ve been fortunate to play with the Titans my entire career, and we’ve made the playoffs every single year. I’m used to spring beard, so yeah… habit and laziness is why I still have it.
But now the playoffs are done, and to no one’s surprise, the Arizona Vengeance walked away with the Cup. They fucking earned it too.
It’s been two and a half months since I was suspended from the team and walked away. Almost seven weeks since I went to Pittsburgh to watch the Titans in the playoffs.
It seems like a lifetime ago.
Fumbling around in the cabinet beneath the sink, I pull out my electric razor and attach the beard trimmer. Leaning over the sink, I run it through the coarse hair and let it fall away from my face.
It’s like I’m being reborn, shedding the last vestiges of my hockey self.
I lather up and shave the stubble, expecting to see a new person.
Sadly, it’s the same old disappointing fuck who was there before I stepped into the shower, except now without the beard.
With a sigh, I unhook the towel from around my waist and toss it over the shower’s edge to dry. I brush my teeth, put my contacts in, and move into the bedroom where my clothes have been moved from suitcases to drawers.
Once dressed, I head into the kitchen to make breakfast. I’ve been up for two hours already, having worked out before my shower. Stone has an unfinished basement that I’ve been steadily filling with weights—no way in hell I want to call attention to myself by working out at the local gym.
I scramble up some eggs with toast and eat standing at the counter while looking out the window over the backyard. It’s about an acre of thick green grass, bordered all the way around by forest—another fifteen acres that come with the property. The house sits back from the road, so I’m relatively secluded, and I love that I can’t see a single fucking soul.
When I’m done eating, I clean up the plate and pan and wipe down the counters. One thing that’s changed over the last few months is that I’ve actually become a bit of a neat freak.
Which implies—and is accurate—that I was a slob before. But I was busy as fuck and didn’t really care if my dirty dishes piled up. Being unemployed and not wanting to go anywhere leaves a lot of time to clean.
About the only place I do go is the grocery store, and that’s a necessity since the town doesn’t have conveniences such as grocery delivery. I’ve been going early in the morning in the hopes of avoiding recognition, but it’s happened. There’ve been a few folks who’ve done double takes, and one flat out asked if I was Coen Highsmith.