Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
“Because you don’t want to stick your nose in other people’s biz. Trust me.”
“But he’s cheating on her.”
“So? That’s his biz, not yours.”
“It’s also her business,” I point out.
“It can’t be her business when she doesn’t know about it,” Hollis counters.
I pause. “So you subscribe to the whole ‘what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her’ camp? Really?”
“I’m just saying, is some rando from class worth you getting involved in a third-party relationship? Child, please.”
“Please don’t say child, please.”
He ignores me, taking a huge bite of the omelet. “Look, if it was one of us,” he blabbers with his mouth full, “then I’d say hell yeah, you have a duty to say something. But how well do you know this chick?”
“Not well. We’re still getting to know each other.”
Hollis finally swallows his food. “There you go. So even if you do tell her, she won’t believe you, bro. If someone I’m ‘still getting to know’”—he uses air quotes—“accused Rupi of cheating, I’d say child, please—”
“I’m begging you to stop saying that.”
“—and I’d think they had an ulterior motive.”
Mike Hollis, of all people, is rationally confirming my own doubts. But maybe men are naturally cynical? I’m sure if I polled any of the women living in this house whether they’d want to know, the answer would be YES! In a heartbeat.
“You don’t want to get involved,” Hollis warns. “Trust me, man. Stay as far away from this situation as you can.”
Morning practice is fast-paced. I’m sweating like a dog, and panting like one as I skate hard toward the net. We’re running two-on-ones, designed for the defensemen to attempt to stop a forward on a breakaway. But I’m way faster than Kelvin and Peters. During the entire drill, I’ve managed not only to outskate them, but to score on net every time.
Until now. I wind up my slapshot and unleash the puck, only for the goaltender to pluck it out of the air with his glove. It’s Trenton, our backup goalie.
He lifts his mask and flashes a toothy grin. “How do you like them apples, captain?”
I whistle in admiration. “That’s a wicked glove you got there. If you were a bit faster with the pads, you’d be giving Boris some real competition for the starter job.”
Rather than look defeated, Trenton’s eyes gleam with fortitude. “Then I’ll get faster,” he vows.
Oh yeah, he’s got that hunger. The kid’s gonna be starting games in no time.
I skate toward the bench. Coach blows his whistle, signaling practice is over. Our defensive coordinator O’Shea asks a couple of D-men to stay behind to run one more drill, but the rest of us are free to go. Good, because my stomach is grumbling. Time for second breakfast. But first I need to wash all the sweat off me.
Our showers have the sweetest set-up. Each one is its own individual stall separated by waist-high partitions, so we can see each other’s heads but not our junk, just the way I like it. In the stall next to mine, Con is dunking his head under the spray, smoothing his longish hair away from his forehead. He’s got a bite mark on his left shoulder. This fucking guy.
“Hey, about this weekend,” I start, deciding to poll more people about my dilemma.
But Conor misinterprets. Chuckling softly, he turns to grin at me. “Yeah, sorry ’bout that. I forgot to lock the door.” He raises a brow. “You should’ve joined us.”
I’m helpless to stop my dick from twitching. Bad enough that I’m not having sex with the parade of women throwing themselves at me at parties—now I’m being invited to threesomes? The universe has a lousy sense of humor.
“Nah, I’m not talking about the BJ. I needed—”
“Feed me!” The anguished shout reverberates in the shower area, making Con and me jump.
“For fuck’s sake,” Conor says, turning toward the doorway.
Matt and Treeface are standing outside Jesse Wilkes’ stall, the latter waving Pablo around in the air. I’m not worried about the egg falling into one of the showers, because it’s been established that pigs can indeed swim.
Jesse remains unfazed by the intruders. He simply squirts shampoo into his palms and lathers up his hair. “You can wait five minutes, Pablo,” he says cheerfully.
Matt glares at him. “Would you really do that if he was real? If your pet pig was standing in the doorway begging to be fed?”
“Hell yeah, I would. I’ve got three golden retrievers at home. They eat when I tell them to eat.”
Laughter bounces off the acoustics in the room. He’s got a point. I had a Jack Russell growing up and he ate twice a day, like clockwork. My control-freak father wouldn’t have it any other way.
Man, I miss that dog. I was ten years old when he died, and I remember crying my eyes out in my bedroom until Dad came in to inform me that real men don’t cry. Good chat.