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)
“Are you fucking kidding?” She lightly chortles at my expense. “The place is gonna be fucking packed. It has been every year since we started doing this shit when I was kid, even the seasons where we sucked donkey balls.”
Entering the elevator upon our arrival happens on a small, amused headshake.
Yeah, getting her to censor herself in any shape has been an impossible task I’ve given up on for the time being. Mom says over the next couple of months as the boys really start to develop talking skills, we can start a swear jar and that we can use the money in there to take a family vacation to Disney or some shit. My problem isn’t with the idea. It’s more about how many trips to fucking Disney we’re gonna end up going on.
“Media coverage?”
She peers up at me, additional amusement bouncing around her expression. “Is that your way of asking if Maleficunt is gonna be here?”
I deliver her a look and a simple nod of acknowledgment regarding the correction.
“Yup.”
Her entire body tenses during the descent prompting me to give her hip a supportive squeeze.
Unfortunately for us, Florence Ramirez doesn’t seem to be disappearing or any less invested in our shortcomings. She was the first to cover any issue we faced during last season yet—to no surprise—last to want to talk about our victories, including how well we did in playoffs, which was fucking impressive for basically a brand-new team under management as well as leadership.
Blanc and every player Harlow signed did what they said they’d do all season long.
They delivered.
And knowing that…fuck, seeing that has helped ease the worries regarding making her father proud.
On the anniversary of his death, I forced her to take the time off to grieve.
She was pissed.
And then thankful.
And then introduced me to the man for the first time.
It was weird talking to a headstone but necessary.
I think it finally bridged a gap between the man who used help take care of her and the one who currently does.
And as for the designer mouthpiece that has a tendency to try to make up shit in order to still profit from her thriving daughter? Legally speaking, she’s been bound and gagged. She cannot discuss anything that isn’t opinion based—as in her own personal feelings in reference to a topic—including details regarding the grandsons she hasn’t been welcomed to meet. The same grandsons she used to get an endorsement deal for some “young grandmothers” modeling thing in spite of never having been an actual grandmother to them. We both doubt she’s done testing the limits of her verbal confines.
But we’re also both prepared to make her life hell in that aspect if it comes to that.
Exiting the elevator is followed by me casually investigating, “Are you prepared to be both Mom and GM simultaneously? You typically only have to do one or the other.”
“I’m not worried,” she off handedly insists, waving to security along our stroll towards the adjacent building. “I’ve got you. And you,” Harlow cuts me an unusually sweet glance, “are always available for the apple.”
My grin is bashful, but I know better than to keep us in the sentimental shit for too long. “Yeah, I can tell you came enough. You’re spouting girly shit my direction.”
“Oh, get bent, fuckface.”
Laughter immediately springs from both of us, yet I playfully mutter, “There’s the woman I married in Vegas.”
And there’s something I haven’t regretted fucking once.
Regardless of the ups and downs and sideways shit, I’ve never wished I hadn’t.
Never wished I didn’t ask for ninety days.
Never once have I wished she didn’t end up pregnant or our lives to grow into the crazy mess that they have.
To me?
I’m still racking up the jackpot.
“There’s mommy and daddy!” My mom announces to Mario who immediately lights up at the sight of us.
“There’s my baby boy!” Harlow loudly coos collecting him into her arms. “Did you miss me?” Whether it’s the bouncing or talking to him that gets him giggling is unknown. “Did you have fun with grandma?!”
“Of course he had fun with me,” Mom insists as I lean over to peek in on Marcus who is passed out on his side of the stroller. “I’m fun.”
“So fun that you’re gonna come skate with us?” my wife asks her while booping our youngest’s tiny nose.
“God no,” she immediately shudders. “I can hardly balance in heels. I won’t even pretend to do it in skates.”
“You’re not that bad, Mom.”
“I am, but you’re just that sweet, B.”
“Eh,” the love of my life adds, instantly receiving a swat to her ass.