Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
With Drake, though, he’s so self-assured, he can handle a strong woman. In fact, the reason I like him so much isn’t his magic dick, but that he doesn’t let me intimidate him.
On the contrary, he controls and dominates me, and I think I actually need that. I need to let someone else steer the ship and make the decisions, even if it’s just in the bedroom.
“I like that you’ve settled into Pittsburgh and the team,” I say, playing with the ends of his long hair. “Guess you don’t need to stick it to the league anymore.”
Drake laughs, sliding a hand to my ass and pulling me in close to a resurgence of the magic dick. “I’m done sticking it to the league, but I’m not done sticking it to you.”
He kisses me, and I grin against his mouth. “I’m glad.”
“I’m glad you’re glad,” he replies and rolls me onto my back. I sigh as my arms go around his neck and he kisses me again.
CHAPTER 21
Drake
Dillon Martelle is our third-line left-winger and one of the team’s summer acquisitions. Callum got him from the LA Dragons, and he has the potential to knock Darius Cermak off left wing. They battled hard during training camp and both put in excellent performances during the preseason. Things being so close between them, I think Darius got the second-line position only because he was on that line last year, and second line has remained mostly intact, except for Foster Macinnis, who took over the center spot when Boone moved permanently to the first line, taking over Gage’s vacant right-wing position.
Married with two kids—a boy and a girl—Dillon and I have bonded over parenting. A lot of the players don’t have children, so they don’t understand that life is very different when you do.
We have today mostly off as we’re between home games. Coach West kept this morning’s practice to only an hour so our legs will be fresh for tomorrow, although I also got in a workout. And now we’re all at Dillon’s house for an impromptu get-together.
The main reason I accepted the invitation was because children were invited, and I want my boys to start bonding with the other kids.
Dillon and his wife, Carly, live north of Pittsburgh in a new subdivision that reminds me a lot of where we lived in Red Wing—large, cookie-cutter houses with no trees and young landscaping. Pittsburgh is growing, thanks to the thriving medical and banking industries, and families are pushing the city limits outward.
Kiera is in tow and currently watching the boys as they climb all over the Martelles’ huge wooden play set, complete with a small climbing wall and fireman’s pole they slide down from the playhouse at the top. I grin because Kiera stands close, fretting as they play. She’s always worried they’ll fall and get hurt.
I’m more the type of dad who knows they have to fall to appreciate gravity, although I will settle them down if they get too rambunctious. Right now, they’re just having fun making new friends. They’ve settled into their new school, but I don’t know any of the parents there and can’t exactly arrange playdates. Kiera and I will get it figured out, but for now, they’re free to run like little hellions and have a blast.
I grab a beer out of a huge metal tub filled with ice. The get-together is casual with catered BBQ served on thick paper plates, as well as soda and dessert for the kids. My type of party—it doesn’t require me to dress up. It’s bad enough I have to do it several times a week for games.
Glancing around, I see most of the players are here with their significant others and children, if they have them. I note that Coach West didn’t come—no clue if he was invited, but I’d assume so. I saw Gage and Baden earlier.
Brienne is most definitely not here, and I didn’t even bother to look for her as I know she’s on her way to Germany. She wouldn’t have been invited, though, because there’s such a wide chasm between the team owner and players.
At least, usually, but I’ve obviously crossed it.
I move to the back lawn toward a group of guys playing cornhole—Camden, Nolan, Kirill, and Hendrix—all four defensemen. The first three guys are as single as they come, but Hendrix has a girl hanging on his arm, and I assume that’s his new girlfriend.
“Hey, man,” Nolan says as he glances up. He’s bent at the waist, about to launch an underhanded lob at the board. He tosses and misses, beanbag bouncing off into the grass. “Fuck… I suck at this game.”
“It’s why you’re a defenseman,” I say with a smirk. “You can’t thread a puck through the net either.”
They all laugh, especially since it’s not true. Any defenseman has to be able to score goals too. It’s just not their primary job.