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)
“She’s great,” I answer, realizing that I owe her a phone call. “Wanted to thank her for all the time she spent freezing her ass off at my games.”
I make a mental note to actually send her flowers too. She’d be tickled as hell at that.
“Good to hear it.” Shepherd nods.
“Well, if Days isn’t going to get his dick sucked, I am,” Randall announces, standing up from his seat in the hot tub.
I don’t know if he means with a cheerleader or someone else. Hell, he could be lying his ass off too.
But we wave our goodbyes as he walks past the pool and disappears.
Cupping the bubbles in my hand, I realize that if Max leaves, I’ll be alone with Shepherd, and that’s a dangerous position to be in. I’m gonna have to figure that out—he’s my best friend, so avoiding him for the season is impossible—but I also don’t have to figure that out today.
So before Max can say anything, I rise too. “Think my bed’s calling my name,” I say, grabbing a towel and roughly running it over my head. “Don’t cook yourselves so long your balls turn into prunes, or you’ll never get them caressed again.”
They laugh at the advice, not moving, and I make my escape to safety.
I’ve got to be more careful. If Max had seen the delivery address or name, and not only the flowers, I’d be bobbing for apples in that hot tub right now with Shepherd’s hand holding me under.
Chapter 11
Joy
Using every ounce of polite manners my mom force-fed into me to be gracious and grateful, I tell Dalton, “Thank you for the blazing stars. They’re beautiful.” He’s sitting in a chair in his hotel room, wearing a Moose T-shirt and presumably sweats, though I can’t see them on the phone screen, and I’m on my couch, wearing a sweatshirt, sports bra, underwear, leggings, and socks, and covered to my chin with a fluffy blanket.
Both of us seemingly chose safer spots and attire for tonight’s pregame call. As if we both know there can’t be a repeat of the last one and wanted layers of protection from it. Or at least, that’s why I chose my outfit. Dalton might’ve packed only team gear for all I know. But at least his muscled chest and ripped abs are put away like the weapons of female destruction they are.
What I really want to say is, Do you know what a shitstorm you stirred up for me by sending a bouquet to my work? What were you thinking?
But I don’t, because I don’t want to sound like a bitch, even though the flower delivery definitely got tongues wagging. People were coming by my cubicle for all sorts of nonsense for an opportunity to peek at the flowers and see if I’d spill who sent them.
“I thought you’d like them,” he replies with a confident smile. “No roses, like you said.”
I swear to god, if he could pat himself on the back any harder, he would. As it is, he’s nearly verbally popping his shoulder out of socket to congratulate himself on a job well done.
How is he so completely oblivious? He’s smart and has surely sent flowers to a woman before, so how does he not realize?
Maybe I bear the teeniest bit of responsibility for not clarifying that I meant to my apartment when I told him to send flowers? And honestly, it was a joke. I didn’t think he’d really send them anyway. But I figured if he listened and actually did it, he’d know better than to send them to the station. Apparently not, which means I have to be the one to educate him.
“Do you know what happens when someone gets flowers at work?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
His dark brows furrow in confusion and he shrugs. “I dunno. You set them on your desk?”
I nod as if I’m thinking deeply about his superficial answer. “Let’s try this . . . you and the team walk out of the arena together, high-fiving and congratulating each other on a win, and see Max’s car has stuff written on the windows like great game, best winger ever with an arrow pointing at the driver, and Moose 4ever. What would you say to him?”
“Stage five clinger alert,” he jokes, grinning at the thought. “We’d definitely ask who the new pussy is and warn him about condom sabotage because a girl like that’s a baby-trapper.”
“Riiight,” I drawl out, prompting him to put two and two together.
It takes a second, a solid breath in and out while he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my marbles, and then he sits upright. “Oh fuck! I didn’t even think—” He frowns hard, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Did people at the station—”
I interrupt to fill in, “Ask who my new boyfriend is? Yeah. They did. And when I said ‘not a boyfriend,’ they got carried away with all sorts of theories. Before long, I was fielding conspiracies about secret admirers, stalkers, and obsessed fans.”