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)
Probably doesn’t help that the damn thing costs more than I made last year.
Harlow’s easy settling in her seat encourages me to slightly relax and the way she proceeds to text someone like this is an everyday occurrence, like this could become an everyday occurrence brushes away the lingering worry.
Curiosity collides with jealousy over the growing grin on her face pushing me to ask, “Margot?”
“Blanc.”
Relief immediately reclaims my disposition on a casual nod.
On one side of the bar, I know I technically have no fucking right to be jealous or angry if she were texting other guys because we haven’t declared this shit as anything other than willing to give dating a taste test, which means she could date whoever or—Patron forbid—fuck whoever she wanted since we’re still in the early stages, but on the other side of the bar, I feel I have every fucking right to be pissed off if she were hooking up with other dudes. We’re married—albeit not seriously—we’re having a kid, and we practically fucking live together. We have all the ingredients to make us a couple and to be couple, yet we’re not one. We’re basically just one obnoxious sitcom storyline gunning for most cliché situation of the season.
I don’t fucking love it.
But I am fucking dealing with it.
“We’ve got six players coming to the rink today, from both our major and minor teams.” She sends her attention my direction around the time I arrive at the first stoplight. “We may get to witness a little funsky three on three action.”
I meet her gaze on a quirked eyebrow. “We?”
“Yeah, I’ll be down in the rink most of the day talking with your boss about the equipment budget then Blanc about the players, the plays, the season, conditioning expectations, and his ideas for team building events.” The corners of her lips curl upward. “Which you will be attending.”
“Why? I’m the assistant equipment manager to home games only. I barely register on the fucking radar.”
“Every member of this team is important, Brendan. Whether you’re the ones washing sweaters or wearing the C on your chest. Every. Person. Matters.”
Her spoken passion pushes me down in my seat.
“Dad let that mentality slip for too long, and it cost us great players as well as great employees. We’re not doing that anymore. I’m not doing it anymore. We’re now on our Musketeers shit, and we’re going to make sure everyone knows it.”
“Do you mean Mouseketeers shit? That old show that Gosling was on as a kid?”
A deep glower is immediately presented. “Why do you do that? Why do you have to remind me that you’re practically still a kid?”
My snickers slip free at the same time our light turns green.
“You’ll be going to the team building adventures just like the other nonplayers. And you know what? Five hundo says you’re gonna fit right in with everyone.”
I should take that bet.
Especially since I know I won’t.
Because I already don’t.
And because Page has used every chance he can fucking find to remind me of that.
The remainder of our drive to work is filled with Nick Jonas tunes, player updates, playoff upsets, and next season predictions, all of which have her doing basically the exact opposite of the resting I encouraged her to do. However, rather than remind her the reason why I’m driving, I merely relish in the fact that she’s yanking me into her world versus leaving me on the outside like she’s been doing. And while I get I can’t and have no right to go to all these functions simply because I’m the dude whose dick she’s interested in riding, it does suck to be excluded from so much.
Like I anticipated earlier, the instant the two of us are in the rink she’s welcomed.
Worshipped.
Wanted by anyone and everyone she crosses, all desperate to have her approval in some aspect.
Me?
Ignored until someone demands “the new dude” to get something because Craig is busy.
Finding tasks to occupy my attention during their time bullshitting around in the weight room is fairly fucking easy. There’s a lot that goes into the job that most people don’t know or understand. Everything from repairing equipment to doing inventory to anticipating a player’s needs, which I’m told becomes easier the longer you’re around the guys and a helluva lot easier once your team has better roots than the none that we basically have now. Luckily for me, today’s servant boy status is inventory shit, something that having lived the bar life for most of my working existence equipped me with the skills to handle.
Checking helmets one by one for cracks, dents, and other damage should be monotonous but being granted permission to listen to my choice of music in an ear bud helps the shit move along much more smoothly. By the time the players transition from the workout space to the actual ice, I’ve not only finished up that objective, I’ve moved on to reviewing which players will need mouthguards for the coming season and which have opted out.