Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 55048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 275(@200wpm)___ 220(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 275(@200wpm)___ 220(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
“I didn’t know,” I said, at a loss. “I wouldn’t have taken your help if I had known.”
Not because I didn’t need the help, or because I didn’t appreciate it, but because it wouldn’t have been right.
“You don’t know anything about what we do,” Ford said, his steely gaze unnerving. “You don’t know how much work we put into our careers or what this game means to some of us, or even to the fans who look up to us.”
“What makes you an expert on what I do and don’t know?” I demanded, arching my brows in challenge.
He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it immediately. “We’re leaving.”
“Maybe you should drop another couch on her foot,” Dom muttered.
Ford gave him a warning look and it clicked into place—he was the team captain. I knew his name well, but until today, I hadn’t known his face. He was a new player on the team, and since the end of the last season had been cancelled due to the arena explosion, the Coyotes hadn’t played a game in a long time.
“Whatever’s going on, you don’t need to be dicks about it,” Sam said.
“Honey, we’re not the dicks in this situation,” Dom said.
“Oh, hell no,” my best friend said. “You did not just call me honey.”
I shot her a look. “Just let them leave.”
“Right, so they can go slash the tires on the moving van? Or throw a flaming bag of shit on your front porch?”
Ford’s expression was aghast. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Now we’re criminals? Just because we play hockey?”
Five minutes ago, I’d been fantasizing about pepperoni pizza. Things had quickly devolved into a shit show in my new living room.
“No,” I said emphatically. “Our friends need to stop running their mouths. Thank you both for your help.”
Dom gave me a fake smile. “And thank you for mocking my life’s work. It’s been a pleasure, Eleanor.”
Sam gasped in disbelief and Ford practically shoved Dom out the door, closing it behind them.
“What the hell was that?” Sam asked.
I sighed heavily. “Long story. Why don’t we go return the moving truck and get some food? I’ll tell you about it on the way.”
“Yeah, okay.”
It was probably exhaustion that made me burst out laughing as I hobbled out to the moving truck in Sam’s flip flops, my toe swollen and throbbing beneath the makeshift paper towel and duct tape bandage I’d put on it. If only my family could see me now. Smashed toe, driving a moving van, and getting into an argument with the professional hockey player next door. They’d say it was all very uncivilized.
It was exactly what I wanted, though, surly neighbor and all.
CHAPTER THREE
Ford
I always ate two Reese's Peanut Butter Cups about an hour before game time. One time in high school, I ate a package of Reese’s cups before a game and scored four goals. It became one of my rituals after that. One of our sports medicine interns, Ross, had been tasked with delivering my pregame snack this season.
“Did you sing the song?” my teammate Colby asked as Ross offered me the package of Reese’s cups.
Ross’s eyes went wide. He was a nineteen-year-old kid who looked nervous as hell most of the time.
“Song?” he asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“They didn’t tell him about the song,” Colby said while shaking his head, selling this prank like a champ.
I kept my head down, because I wasn’t going to encourage him, but I knew Ross had to take some razzing to be accepted in our locker room.
“I’ll help you out,” Colby said, clapping Ross on the shoulder. “You hold the peanut butter cup package in both hands, like this.”
Ross cupped his hands around my snack reverently, looking intently at Colby for further instruction.
“It goes like this,” Colby said, maintaining a serious expression as he started singing. “Ford Barrett, I know you’re gonna tear it…open! And consume it, eat it all, and then you won’t fall…score some goals, I know you hate foals. Boom!”
“He hates baby horses?” Ross asked, his brow furrowed.
Colby gave him a solemn look. “He’s terrified of them. It’s not something he likes to talk about.”
“Oh, sorry.” Ross gave me an apologetic look. “Sorry, Mr. Barrett.”
I glared at Colby, who had just made up that dumbass song. It was our first game as a new team, and many of these guys, including Colby, had been in the old arena on the day of the explosion. Maybe we needed a little levity, but I wasn’t feeling any amusement. I was carrying about a thousand pounds on my shoulders.
“Sing it, son,” Colby said, giving Ross an expectant look. “Ford needs his snack.”
Ross’s cheeks reddened. “I have to sing it every time? Before every game?”
“Right.” Colby said it like it was a natural expectation for an intern. “You know hockey players have rituals, right?”