Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
That night, when hockey reporter Bryce Tucker asked me to talk about how I felt after a bad tripping call, I used my words all right. One word. I said, “Shit-tastic.”
And I stalked out of the pressroom.
Trouble is that sneaky fucker turned my comment around, reporting that I had called the officials shit-tastic. And then he dubbed me the King of Grunts. That was fun.
The Avengers PR guy, Oliver, called Josh, and Josh told me I needed to work on my rep, stat, starting by doing a fan event with the star of the Sea Dogs when we played our enemies on the ice, and ending with a photo opp with the same VIP winner at the Hockey Hotties calendar kickoff a few weeks after that. “It’s the fastest way to show you’re not a dick. By consorting with the rival.”
I believe my words to Josh were kill me now.
But Chase loves fan events. Chase loves the press. Chase loves everything. Hell, the Golden Retriever even loved high school, and no one loves high school.
So, here I am, slapping on my smile as I hold open the door to the limo for the woman we’re entertaining tonight. “After you…”
I trail off because I don’t remember her name. Guess I am an asshole.
“Trina,” Chase corrects with an eye roll, sliding into the limo right behind her.
Dick.
Besides, I thought some hardcore fan named Jasper won the tix. That was what Oliver told me a couple weeks ago, so I was expecting an amateur hockey analyst type to show up at the bench for the pre-game photo opp, giving me super-useful advice, like “Dude! Why didn’t you get that goal in the second period in the game the other night? I totally could have gotten that goal. Shoulda skated faster.”
But I didn’t expect a woman who’s fit.
A woman I stared at for far too long before, during, and after that photo shoot, so much so that I didn’t pay attention when Gianna said her name.
But damn, as she scoots into the limo, takes off her jacket, and sits in the back seat, Trina’s hard to look away from with that heart-shaped face and those cat-eye red glasses. Is that a tiny cherry drawing on the frame? That’s adorable and sexy at the same time. Translation: my downfall.
Plus, she’s got a spray of freckles across her nose. And don’t even get me started on those pretty lips.
Except, I fell for Selena right away because of her looks. Where did that get me? Getting crushed by a woman who stabbed me in the back and slashed my heart.
Relationships suck. Romance is a lie. The human race is doomed. Case closed.
But I suppose Josh is right. Can’t hurt for me to be un-surly now and then. Un-surly pays the bills much better than surly does, and that helps me take care of my mom and sisters—something I intend to do always. I will never put my mom in a position where she has to make hard choices ever again.
“Trina’s a nice name,” I mutter, but I’m not sure she hears since she’s busy whipping her head back and forth, seemingly hunting for the seat belt. Then, she finds it as I take the long seat along the side of the stretch limo.
“I didn’t expect to see this,” she says, strangely delighted at the presence of a…seat belt. She doesn’t put it on though. Just kind of regards it. “I didn’t think limos had seat belts.”
“They weren’t required to for a long time,” I answer.
That piques her interest. Tilting her head, she asks, “How did they get out of that before? Having a seat belt?”
I strip off my suit jacket and set it on the leather seat. “Technically, a stretch limo was considered a bus for a long time. If it seated more than ten people, or had backward-facing or sideway-facing seats, it was a bus.”
“Even if it didn’t quack like a bus?” Chase counters.
“But the California Seat Belt Law came along, so here we are,” I say, not taking his joke bait.
Trina looks at me like I’m an oddity found in a parlor of the weird. “How do you know the California Seat Belt Law?”
“Looked it up when I got my youngest sister a limo for prom a few years ago. Had to make sure Katie and all her friends were safe, even if the guys they went with were little shits,” I say, shaking my head in remembered annoyance.
“Why were they little shits?” Trina asks. She can’t stop asking questions. Maybe she’s a secret reporter. Ah, hell. I really hope she’s not.
I stare her down. “Are you actually a reporter?” I ask, not answering her question. “Because you ask a lot of questions.”
“Dude. Settle down. She’s not a reporter. And don’t be such a sore loser,” Chase chides.