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)
“You know how all the guys have things that get them right in the head? Routines, good luck charms, mental gymnastics, stuff like that,” he says. I nod, aware of that fact but not sure what it has to do with his impromptu appearance in my living room. “Those are sometimes as important as all the drills, practices, and skills.” He seems to expect something from me, so I nod again, but I guess that’s the wrong thing to do because he starts to pace, muttering to himself, “So fucking stupid, Days. There’s no way. She’s more likely to trip you and laugh at your big ass sprawled on the floor than to help you.”
He’s lost it. Gone crazy. Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. It’s the only explanation.
I raise my hand like we’re in second grade math class. “Um, if I might ask a question . . . Could you have this completely normal conversation in the hallway, or do I need to bear witness for later testimony about your state of mind?”
“I need to show you my cock.”
He says it so matter-of-factly. Like he’s telling me the weather outside is lovely tonight. No, not that heartfelt. Like he’s telling me the sky is blue, grass is green, and two plus two is four.
“What?” I laugh, sure I must’ve misheard him.
He turns to me, emphasizing his points with his hands. “I need. To show you. My cock.”
Nope, that’s what he said. Exactly what he said. I jump up from the couch and march to the door, yanking it open. “Get out.”
“Wait. I’m doing this all wrong,” he says and sighs. I tap my foot, crossing my arms over my chest as I glare pointedly out the door.
Shiiiit. I’m not wearing a bra either. I wonder where I threw that when I got home. Oh yeah, it’s on the kitchen counter where I dumped it while the popcorn was popping.
Dalton’s eyes drop, and I realize that my arms-crossed pose has probably highlighted my free-boobing state because this oversize T-shirt only disguises that fact when it’s hanging loose. “Eyes up here, mister.” I snap my fingers, then point at my eyes.
To his credit, he jerks his eyes to mine. “Let me explain. I swear it’ll all make sense if you let me explain.” He holds a hand out toward the couch, inviting me to sit on my own damn furniture.
Eyes narrowed, I close the door and walk back over, taking my time to sit down, arrange my blanket, and only then, give him a glance worthy of Queen Elizabeth looking down on a peasant. You may speak, I say with my eyes, though my mouth stays primly shut for a change.
I owe it to my home team to hear him out because if our star goalie has crossed over to some world where dick-flashing is normal, Shepherd needs to know. Especially given Dalton’s unexpected and illogical exhibition at Chuck’s a few days ago. I know the players are under a lot of stress, but I never would’ve thought Dalton would be the one to succumb to it.
But it seems like he has.
“Thank you,” he says, sounding like the words are glass shards on his tongue. “As I was saying, all the guys have routines, good luck charms, stuff like that—”
“Superstitions,” I offer helpfully.
“I don’t like to call them that,” he corrects.
I tilt my head and say airily, “To-may-to, to-mah-to. Do you need hair from a guinea pig or eye of toad or something? I could hit up the Google for you.”
“Joy. Focus,” he orders harshly, making my name sound like a curse. “I need to show you my cock.”
“We’re back to that? I thought you were kidding!” Well, I hoped he was. It’s not that I’m against seeing Dalton Days’s dick again. But it’s probably not good for my vibrator’s life expectancy because that fella’s been getting a workout worthy of a CrossFitter while I fantasized about a certain big, pierced appendage. But not the man it’s attached to.
Is it possible to be dick-attracted but man-repulsed? Apparently so.
“I’m not joking. Unfortunately,” he grumbles. “I’ve thought about it from every angle possible—”
“Same,” I say, shaking my head sadly, as if his penis has haunted my nightmares. Dick Attack on Mars!
“Wha—?” he asks, probably confused since he can’t hear my inner train of thought. “The opener was my best game ever. I felt good, played well, and we won. Then the Ice Truckers game was a shit show at best. I felt like I was forgetting something the whole time, and Shepherd suggested I compare my pregame prep between the two. There was only one difference.”
He looks at me like I should be able to figure out the very obvious answer, and slowly, I reply, “Me seeing your dick?”
“Yes!” He seems relieved that I understand. “So, can I . . .” He motions toward the crotch of his sweatpants.