Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
When it comes to hockey, unflappable Maple Creek sports reporter Joy Barlowe is privy to a lot of behind-the-scenes locker room activity. Like stumbling upon Dalton Days in all his unabashed glory. After the muscled goalie goes on to score better than he ever has, he proposes Joy take another peek before his next match. It works, and a provocative pregame tradition is born.
Dalton has the best stats in the league, but he’s also superstitious. Now he’s found his good luck charm. Joy is not only game, she’s playing along. She’s also his best buddy’s younger sister and totally off-limits. What happens between them has to be their late-night FaceTime secret. That’s the naked truth. So is the fact that Joy and Dalton are discovering there’s more to each other than meets the eye.
Falling in lust? Easy to hide. Falling in love? Much harder. Now Dalton has one more proposition for Joy. And the fallout could rock Maple Creek.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Dalton
Preseason workouts suck balls. Like wrinkly, dangly ones with pubes that’d get stuck in your teeth. Not that anyone’s sucking my cock today. I’m so exhausted, I couldn’t get it up, let alone bust a nut.
Coach Wilson has been hard on us for the last few weeks, demanding drill after drill on the ice, record lifts in the weight room, and most dreaded of all, twice-daily tabata bike protocols. The kind originally developed for the Japanese Olympic speed skating team. Add in flexibility training, sauna time, and watching videos while Coach yells about how we’re gonna fall on our asses if we keep showing up the way we are, and yeah, preseason sucks.
I thought practice was going well. Apparently not, which is why I’m grumpy as hell.
Not that that’s new or unusual.
I’ve been the goalie for the Maple Creek Moose for the last five years, and I’ve nearly destroyed myself, inside and out, for the team, taking us to the playoffs two years ago. It was a nail-biter, but ultimately, we lost in overtime. Second place is first losers as far as the guys and Coach are concerned, and nothing’s been the same since getting that close to a dream and falling short. We swore we’d come back bigger, better, and stronger last year, and we worked even harder, only to not make it to the finals at all.
This year, we’re bound and determined to not only get to the playoffs, but win. All or nothing, baby.
It’s what we live for.
And honestly, that kind of success, and the press coverage it brings, is the only way any of the guys are going to catch the attention of the parent club, and big-league money. We all want that. Sure, being a big fish in a small pond—a.k.a. the Maple Creek Moose—is great, but being a small fish in a big pond and getting a shot at the big leagues is what we all dream of.
For me, that dream’s getting further and further away with every passing day. Goalies are in their prime from twenty-five to twenty-eight, and my last birthday cake had thirty candles on it. Not unheard-of—there are legends who played all the way to their forties—but I’m sure as shit not getting any closer to a pro contract when I feel every bit of those thirty years, despite being in tip-top shape. I just don’t bounce back as quickly as I used to.
Hence, why I’m the first one in and the last one out for practice. Every single time, no misses. I met with the trainers this morning for a prepractice stretch, massage, and some kinesiology taping, and while the rest of the guys have showered and headed out, I’m still sitting in the ice bath, freezing my aforementioned balls off.
“Dalton? Your time was up four minutes ago. Get your ass outta there, man. Now.”
Given the respect the whole team has for Fritzi—head trainer and former D1 college athlete—his command should be hard to ignore, but the most I can do is peel my eyes open and peer at him. He’s standing beside the tub, arms crossed, one brow arched high, and jaw hard as stone. He’s not only mad, he’s pissed at me.
It’s not that I’m intentionally discounting his order, but right now, moving sounds like hell. Probably because I’m this close to becoming a frostbitten Neanderthal Popsicle.
“Five more minutes, Mom,” I grumble, injecting as much asshole teenager in my voice as possible. I like Fritzi, and he does a great job keeping the whole team in playing shape and as healthy as any professional athlete can be, but giving him shit is how we roll around here. If someone’s nice and polite to you, it most likely means they hate your guts. If they roast you at every opportunity . . . you’re basically trading handwoven, matching “besties 4ever” bracelets. In Maple Creek Moose green and gold, of course.
“You wanna make your dick fall off? Be my guest. Call yourself the Cockless Wonder for all I care. Not my concern. But the health of your hamstrings? Entirely my business. Out.” He holds a towel up, not allowing any argument.
But I’m me, so what do I do? Jack shit, nothing, nada. I don’t move an inch, other than tilting my head a bit, silently asking if he wants to try that again.
He shakes the towel to emphasize his point. I’m an asshole, but Fritzi deals with the whole team on the daily and has his own ways of making us do what he wants. They usually involve zero mercy when digging that damn silver blade thing he uses for massages into various muscles until we cry.
“Fine,” I sigh, leaning forward to take the towel. I’m only giving in because he does have a point. I have been in here a while.