Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 85387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
She nods solemnly. “Your image has been ruined by all the girls you were with. And I’ve been through hell, trying to get those accounts shut down. Be glad we have a great lawyer.”
“Thank you for that,” I tell her since I am very thankful for her.
Those accounts gave access to photos of my cock—and more, to people who subscribed—and were not only bad for my image, but for the team. And my coffeehouse. Yes, it was a terrible idea to allow girls to take photos of me, but I was drunk most of the time, and I enjoyed showing off. Not that I care much what anyone thinks of me, but all those sites, photos, and more didn’t do me any favors.
Everyone would come in for a “coffee,” but then they wouldn’t touch the brew and, instead, would just stare at me while looking at pictures of my cock on their devices. Yes, it brought in a lot of revenue and got me some easy ass, but I’ve turned over a new leaf.
I am trying to be wholesome.
A player the NHL would be proud to have.
According to El.
“It was a pleasure. I enjoy siccing the lawyers on people. That’s fun.” Her cheeks warm with color before her eyes meet mine. “Not sleeping around isn’t enough, though. We need to do something else.”
“Okay. As in what? Go serve chili to the homeless? Save some cat out of a tree? Play hockey in the street with some kids? What are you thinking?”
She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, and it catches my attention. If I were truly a manwhore like everyone says I am, I would hit on her. She’s a beautiful girl, smart, and has a hella great ass. But I don’t. Because I am a good guy…ish. “You’re not gonna like it.”
I arch a brow. “Spit it out, El.”
“A girlfriend.”
I find myself gawking at her, my eyes blinking on their own as I try to process her words. Then I sputter, “A girlfriend?”
“Yes. And then propose in three months.”
My jaw drops. “You want me to propose to said girlfriend.”
“Yes. And if you can knock her up, that would be super awesome. But I am aware that’s asking a lot, not only from you, but from whoever you lock down.”
“You think?” I practically yell, losing control. She jumps at my words. I close my eyes, feeling like a jackass. I run my hands down my face, exhaling hard and then filling my lungs up once more.
“I know it’s a lot to digest and that I’ve come out of left field with this.”
I look at her through my fingers. “El, you’re asking me to get a whole-ass family. I’m not ready for that.”
She nods slowly as I drop my hands from my face. “I know, and it’s a lot to ask for. But you asked me to help you. Coach McCoy asked me to help because he knows you can make it to the NHL if only you didn’t have such a toxic image.”
“Toxic?” I ask, laughing. “Wow. That’s not true.”
“It is,” she says, her eyes urging mine to see the truth. “Opening night last year, you were caught with your pants down behind a waitress,” she says, reading off her notes. “You hooked up with all three daughters of one of our trainers, and he left because of you. Plus, you have slept with a teammate’s wife.”
I grimace at each of her points as if they are small paper cuts in my skin. Shit, maybe I am a manwhore. I press my lips together. “I didn’t sleep with her,” I try, but no one ever listens to that. She gives me a look, and I shrug. “Okay, I made some bad choices, but I’ve grown.”
“Yes, but no one wants to deal with you. You aren’t approachable or even taken seriously. You have a look of pure disdain twenty-four seven. The NHL is flooded with drafted players who fuck around in each city they go to or sleep with teammates’ and trainers’ loved ones. They don’t need you. You need them, though, to make your goals.”
As much as I want to fight her on it, I know I can’t. She’s right.
“And having a family is the only way to change that?”
“Maybe not a family, but we need a wife and perhaps an animal. People love happy couples with animals.”
I blink at her. “Are you sure about this?”
She nods eagerly. “I am. I could be wrong and it won’t help, but when you look at the statistics, people want someone relatable. They already admire you for your talent, but seeing you mess around, drink, jump bed to bed publicly, gamble… That isn’t the life hockey fans want their kids to look up to. They want you to be in love, be settled, and be scoring goals.”