Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Yet here we are.
On both accounts.
“She will personally be leading the interview,” Margot informs and rolls her hand around, “so let’s get you dressed, on a plane, conversationally prepped and into wardrobe to give her the least amount of wins possible in this haranguing.”
An unhappy grunt is all she’s offered prior to the bedding being dropped.
“And since you’re already in a good mood…”
The glare she’s given is easily disregarded considering her main focus seems to be searching the couch cushions for something.
Most likely my phone.
“You should know that you have three player negotiation meetings tomorrow starting at seven.”
“We talkin’ pre bacon and eggs seven or post happy hour shots seven?”
“Pre.”
“Fuck. Me,” I mutter under my breath at the same time I slip on my gray sports bra.
“You also have three more who want to schedule a time.”
Perfect.
I lost my head coach in life and now I’m losing an entire chunk of the fucking team he built.
Yanking the long sleeve cropped sweatshirt occurs on a contemplative hum.
Then again, maybe ditching the players with egos twice the size of their dicks isn’t a bad thing. Maybe…maybe…starting completely fresh would be for the best.
Not in my personal life of course.
Not that I really have a personal life.
I barely even have an offseason when it comes to this sport.
The loose fitted maroon sweatpants I was brought have just finished being tied when the door to the suite opens a second time. “Morning, Hennington!”
Groaning at his volume is thoughtlessly done. “You’re so fucking loud, Winslow. Could you bring it down to a pre-warmies level?”
Chuckles are delivered around a half-eaten donut. “How are you so bloody hungover?”
“Maybe because I have an American liver?” Reaching into the box to grab a chocolate treat occurs between additional teasing. “Or maybe because I don’t literally live behind the bar of my nightclub?”
“It’s a pub, and you bloody know it,” he playfully scolds.
I do know it.
And I invested in it.
And he didn’t actually ask me to.
I…just…wrote a large check when he finalized his location and made sure to show up in Ann Arbor for their opening weekend. Luckily for me it was a road game, so I wasn’t missing a live in person loss. Being in a brand-new pub with great beer and even better deep-fried food was rather on brand for the way I deal with most away game losses. Only difference was that Winslow was by my side watching the epic failures those two days instead of my dad.
One of the best parts of my friendship with Winslow is that it was father approved.
Almost a little too approved.
We’re talking, if arranged marriages were still a thing, he would’ve given up my hand for an aged bottle of Wilcox and box of Twix—fun sized or regular.
See, the thing is…Winslow isn’t my type.
At. All.
I mean, yeah. I love and adore him as a friend. I get why chicks go ga-ga over the foreign accent, the slimmer, swimmer build, the dark hair and emo worthy pouts, but personally?
Pass.
Hard. Pass.
What I want is the one thing I’ve always wanted and the one thing I’ve always been told not to want.
The prince on skates.
Perhaps one that has both impressive dangles on and off the ice.
Or at the very least one that can keep his stick in his pants and not in every busted ass bunny that blinks his direction too long.
Dad adored Winslow because he was a “safe” choice. And a “smart” bet. And one that would’ve taken me away from the rink to live happy miserable after with my heart intact because I wouldn’t have had to worry about who he’s possibly fucking during the forty-one road games. Or wonder if he’s really with the boys working on his slapshot in the barn instead of in the strip club making it snow Benjamins. Or coddle a crying toddler who misses their daddy because for most of the fucking year they rarely see him around practice, interviews, photoshoots, endorsements, and charity events.
I absolutely get where my father was coming from.
It’s probably why I’m still single and am going to die this way.
However, the solution isn’t turning my best friend—who I’ve never wanted to fuck—into the husband I feel obligated to have.
That would not be a winning play, which is why I will never make it.
After finishing a bite of the treat, I retrieve my coffee to properly wash it down. “Appreciate you buying us donuts, Winslow. It’s a nice morning assist.”
“Oh…I did not buy these,” he swiftly insists on a confused head tilt. “The hotel did. They are complimentary for us being guests.”
“Yeah, you’re supposed to take one, James Fraud,” Margot snips from where she’s digging between the couch cushions. “Not one box.”
“It did not specify such a thing. Therefore, I took them all. There was not a bloody sign or security guard to stop me.”