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)
“Wait, what photos?”
“Oh, you weren’t aware your little fuckpacades were being documented and blasted all over social media?”
“I didn’t fuck anyone last night, Harlow!”
“It doesn’t matter what you actually did or didn’t fucking do, you pylon!”
“It should!”
“Yeah well, Tye Gray should’ve played in the NHL All-Star game last season, and he fucking didn’t, so shit happens!”
Bewilderment bulldozes itself onto his face forcing me to regain my focus on the conversation we should actually be having.
Which isn’t about my bitter feelings about one of the greatest players being overlooked due to in league political bullshit.
Political bullshit that I can’t seem to stop being fucked by.
It takes all of the inner peace I can muster up to unlock my phone, pulls up the photos, and to slide the device the short distance across the island top over to him. “Page and McVie and Somerfield posted your little puck bunny adventures last night.” My fingers curl around the edge of the counter as he lifts my phone. “You can scroll the pics. There are some really good shots of you and some chick practically giving you a lap dance at Yard Sale. You know the same chick who you were photographed doing tequila shots with at The Net. And then later walking her to her hotel room or apartment or fucking classroom since she’s practically an infant!”
“Har-”
“Oh, and the plot worsens, Peter Pan. This whole do you or don’t you have a fucking side piece bullshit, this whole can he be faithful or is he no better than all the other piece of shit players that fuck around on their wives day in and day out in this industry, has already begun to make its way into the media that fucking matters. It’s now being reported by most of the major sports blogs with the subject yet again focused on can I or can I not fucking do my job! Do I or do I not have control over my team! If I can’t handle my personal shit, how the fuck can I handle my business?!” Snatching my device out of his hand stumbles him a bit backwards. “And that’s what this shit is, Brendan! It’s a goddamn business! I’m a fucking brand! Whether I like it or not, whether I want it or not, I represent this club at all times, which means if you wanna be married to me, you represent this fucking club at all times, which means you can’t stay out until two in the morning with diamond digging whores who will sell whatever story fits their bank account to the highest bidder at the drop of a fucking puck!”
“Har-”
“It doesn’t matter if you really were or weren’t cheating on me-”
“I wasn’t!”
“It matters what it looks like. To the media. To the fans. To the fucking league.” The slow shake of my head is given as a wave of exhaustion and nausea hit me. “Everyone is already just waiting for me to fail. To fold. No one, Brendan, fucking no one outside of our club and my best friends believes I belong doing this shit. I’m too young. I’m fucking female. I’m black. I’m inexperienced. I am a walking, trash talking abomination of all the things people in this industry fucking rally against! I have to work twice as fucking hard, twice as fucking long, and be twice as fucking careful every time I even think about walking out my front door! Is it fair? Fuck. No.” My venomous bite is felt given the way his entire body suddenly sags. “And this shit will never be fair. This will never be a fair called game, so I have to do whatever it is I can do to keep myself and my team out of the box and on the ice and provided with a fighting chance to win. This isn’t some little after work beer league bullshit with people who have other jobs to fall back on. These are people whose mortgages I have to think about. Whose families need to be fed. Whose medical bills need to be covered. And not just the boys in the sweaters but the legion that works tirelessly at the offices. The same legion I now have to go see about—yet again—cleaning the ice of my social life fuck up.” Feeling my phone begin to vibrate drops my gaze along with my volume. “Maybe we should’ve never done this shit.” Another slow head shake wedges itself between the practically whispered words. “Maybe we should’ve never fallen in love. Maybe we should’ve never tried ninety days. Maybe we should’ve just signed the fucking papers and never looked back.”
It’s impossible to ignore the pain in his objection, “Harlow-”
“Hennington,” I sigh into the device upon answering.
“Good morning, Hennington,” the chipper voice immediately greets, “this is Alice Lopez in PR.”