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)
The truth is, I don’t want it to be a lie.
I want it to be fucking real.
And I have been working tirelessly to make that happen from the minute the reigns landed in my hands.
Once we’re finally done with our media montage, Page suggests something else to stun me for a second time. “Dance?”
The shift in music syncs to the one of my eyebrows. “Is that English?”
Page gives me hearty chuckle and shakes his head. “Dies at ya.”
“Now, I know that shit is Newfish.”
He extends his open palm my direction. “Come on, Hennington. Dance with me.”
Digging my golden kitten heels literally and figurately further into the ground is attached to a counter. “Mmm…do you dance better than you skate?”
“I skate like a pro!”
“You skate like you wanna be a pro.”
Expecting his temper to flare prompts me to brace myself for the blast, yet when I’m hit by more laughs instead, I’m knocked a bit unsteady.
Okay.
Whistle on the play.
Illegal line change!
Can’t have dick Page and…non-dick Page swapping at unapproved times.
“We’re dancing,” he playfully proclaims and grabs my clutch free hand. “And we’re doing it now.”
“I see that,” I snicker in return as I’m slightly dragged to the area closest to the instrumental cover band.
While these stuffy events are awful enough between the uptight food choices and snobbish clothing options—both made even more unbearable when you have to deal with them completely sober—the choice to have a classically trained ensemble play shit like Kool & The Gang and Melissa Etheridge and fucking Sting is borderline new-age torture.
Add in having to slow dance to “I Turn to You” by Christina Aguilera with the one player I’d bet money is going to send me into early labor and I’m fairly certain someone should put a call into the Geneva Convention for unsportsmanlike warfare.
Page places his hand respectfully on my hip and clutches the other with his. “Haven’t done this shit since Ridley’s wedding last summer.”
“Ohhhhhh,” the memory has me scooting closer to him, “when he married Taylor Chen right before training camp with Boston but then found out right after camp that she had been sleeping with his brother their entire relationship, anytime he was on the road where he was—she knew—wheeling road rockets.”
“That’d be the one.”
“Then a week later it was revealed she was knocked up and had no clue which brother was the father.”
He lets loose a small snicker at the same time he shakes his head. “That would’ve had me right rotted.”
“Who the fuck wouldn’t be?” A large, exasperated huff fills the space between us that I swore there was more of a few seconds ago. “I was actually fucking relieved when Ramirez reported on it. Thought maybe…just maybe…the drama would keep him off his game.”
“Didn’t.”
“Not. Much. Does.” Another exhausted sigh escapes. “I want that to be us someday, you know? The team so good…so fucking good…nothing stops them from dominating.”
Page leans in a little closer and quietly promises, “We will, Hennington. Trust me.”
“Hate to interrupt,” Brendan suddenly interjects, startling the two of us in opposite directions. “But uh…Letty needs you for more photos, Page.” My husband smoothly slides me from his rival’s possession into his. “Don’t worry, bud. I can handle shit from here.”
Brendan’s wink causes Page to noticeably glare; however, he does the nondramatic thing shockingly yet again.
He bows out with a nod.
Locates Letty.
Dismisses himself to tend to what I can only assume was a masterfully concocted cockblock plan by my bestie.
I’m gently spun in a slow circle for no particular reason prior to having his other hand glide down my spine to rest right above my backside. The instant we begin swaying to what I’m fairly certain is a Fall Out Boy song, I tease, “Should we send you to the box for interference?”
“Fuck me…” Guilt doesn’t hesitate to glow in his brown gaze. “Is it really that obvious?”
“Your jealousy? Uh…yeah.”
“What do you want from me, baby?” His shoulder shrug is followed by the lowering of his hand even more. “I couldn’t stand the sight of seeing my woman in another man’s arms, especially not that one.”
Girlish giggles only he seems capable of conjuring are the prize granted for his confession.
“We owe Letty a post-game press pass for this assist by the way.” He lets the corners of his lip curl upward at the same time he rests his forehead against mine. “And um…we might wanna discuss who exactly is wearing the G on their jerseys because as of right now we’re looking at being called for too many godparents on the ice.”
The hockey reference along with the topic warrants another snicker.
God, is it possible to fall more in love with someone you’re already in love with?
Shouldn’t that be a whistle on the play?
But you know what?
I’ll just fucking say it.
If I’ve gotta do two minutes in the box, I don’t think there’s another man on this planet I wanna do them beside.