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)
Searching for an answer, I stutter out, “I have no idea. Less than zero. Days hasn’t said that many words in total to me before. That’s including actual interviews over the years. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” I throw my hands wide in confusion. “He’s certainly never been bossy or asshole-ish like that. He’s always been . . . a remote, cold hockey robot. He was on a whole ’nother level out there.”
“He was?” Hope challenges. Laughing, she smacks me on the ass. “Not like you were on your best behavior either.”
“Me?” I squeak, offended that she’s putting any of the blame on yours truly for that shit show. Hope stares at me point-blank, not buying any of my bullshit. “I was happily dancing, minding my own business, when Dalton walked over and got all ‘you shall not fuck,’ like he has any right to boss me or Voughtman around. Not that I’m interested in Max Voughtman,” I clarify, “but Dalton acting like I was going all reverse-cowgirl in the middle of Chuck’s irritated me.”
“And . . . ?” she prompts.
I glare back at her, but eventually I surrender and sigh. “Fine, aaand I might’ve taken it a little bit too far.”
Hope relaxes slightly. “Okay, weird on him, needlessly goading on you, but I think you need to explain a whole lot more about what happened at the rink last night. You said he was different. What does that mean?”
I snap my mouth shut and become exceedingly interested in the tile floor, not wanting to share the embarrassing moment of being cock-stunned enough to think Dalton was asking me out when he wasn’t. Not even with my sister who knows every detail of everything I’ve ever done.
“Did you screw him in the team locker room, Joy? Are you for real right now?” she whisper-screams, jumping to the furthest conclusion in a single bound.
I slam my hand over her mouth, terrified someone overheard her. “No,” I hiss, nearly nose to nose with her. “But I saw his dick. And got a little stupid. I misinterpreted something he said and thought he was asking me out when he wasn’t. He’s apparently a good soldier who follows Shep’s rules where we’re concerned. Not that I wanted to go out with him!”
Hope’s eyes jump back and forth, focusing on mine and reading my thoughts through the blue irises that match her own. “You swear you didn’t have sex with him?” she mumbles behind my hand.
I nod. “I swear.” Slowly, I release her, trusting she won’t say anything else ridiculous, especially at a volume loud enough for people in the hallway outside to hear.
“Okay,” she says, calming down, which is good because then at least one of us is being chill. I’m still freaking out on the inside, confused as hell about what happened and why Dalton went all caveman on Voughtman and me. “I knew you wouldn’t break your no-athlete rule, but he had me questioning everything, and I didn’t know if you and Max or you and Dalton were a thing. Or if you’d started experimenting with throuple-dom.”
“Neither. And definitely not both.” I put my whole heart and soul—and pussy—into the assertation to make it crystalline clear. “No athletes after Buchanan.”
Hope’s eyes go soft and hazy with pity because she was right there beside me during the whole Buchanan debacle. She snuck out of the house to drive to the university with me, stood back while I knocked on his dorm room door, clutching the flowers I got him too tightly, and watched as Buchanan opened the door with a grin that immediately fell from his face when he saw who it was. He wasn’t expecting me, that was for sure.
Neither was the girl in his room, who was half-naked and obviously didn’t know of my existence. Hope was also there for the drive home while I sobbed in the passenger seat, in the ensuing weeks when I alternated between rage and depression, and, finally, when I healed enough to swear off athletes. One was enough for me, and nothing I’ve seen in my years of sports reporting has swayed me to think otherwise.
Athletes are singularly focused, and not on their partners, who always take a back seat to their one passion—their sport. As a result, relationships with athletes tend to be short-lived, one-sided, or, worse, filled with disrespectful cheating.
“They’re not all like that,” Hope says, restarting the same argument we’ve had dozens of times before. “I mean, in general, a lot of guys are like that, I guess. But it’s not exclusive to athletes unfortunately. You just need to find a good guy, like Ben.”
She makes it sound like ordering a caramel Frappuccino at Starbucks. Hello, one good guy, please, with loads of whipped cream and an extra drizzle of loyalty. It’s definitely not that easy, though, and my sister is a lucky bitch. Her husband isn’t simply one of the good ones. He’s the best, which she absolutely deserves, and I’m truly thrilled for her. Just the way he treats her more than compensates for the weirdness of being a secret heavy metal god who wears masks everywhere.