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)
Joy groans grumpily, snuggling into my side with her cheek against my bare chest and tightening her thigh’s grip on my leg. “Nuh-uh, I want to just lay here forever.”
“I probably smell like a sweaty locker room and stinky hockey pads,” I admit. “I didn’t shower after talking to Coach, just changed and bolted.”
She looks up at me sharply. “What’d he say?”
I sigh. “The usual. A lot of ‘what the fuck,’ but ultimately, that he expects better of Shep and me because we’re role models for the team. He’s disappointed in us. Said DeBoer did well and that maybe he’d replace me with him if I didn’t get my shit straight.”
Joy pushes up, looking at me in horror. “No! He can’t do that!”
“He can”—I chuckle—“but he won’t. I had an off night, and DeBoer did great . . . because I’ve been working with him. But Coach knows I’m still better, for now. One day DeBoer will be ready, but it’s not today.”
I smile because once upon a time, I would’ve refused to admit that, but now, it comes easily. I’ve accepted that it’s the truth. I’m good, maybe even great. But I’ll have my turn, my chance, my shot, and then I’ll fade away like most players do, and it’ll be someone else’s turn. And shockingly, I’m okay with that.
“Work with him on spotting and predicting to his stick side. His reaction time is crap, and he’s going to get taken advantage of if that doesn’t improve,” she says, relaxing back into me.
A laugh erupts from deep within my belly. This woman, who just confessed her love for me, took my cock like a champ, is now giving me coaching advice for another player. She might be the perfect woman.
Scratch that. She is the perfect woman, for me and me only.
“Will do. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that you analyzed his play and found weaknesses.” To be clear, DeBoer won’t like that one bit. It’ll piss him off. Not because it’s Joy, but because he’s in the “I don’t have weaknesses” phase. I was there, too, but I’ve outgrown it. Or I’m outgrowing it at least.
“What about Shepherd?” she asks quietly. “Did he say anything else?”
I run my fingers up and down her arm, silently trying to soften this blow for her. “It’s gonna take some time, and I don’t know if it’ll ever be the same.”
“It’s my fault, so let me try to help,” she suggests.
I have no idea what she’s considering. Probably locking us in a cage, forcing us to make friends . . . or kill each other. Actually, she’d probably lock herself in a cage with Shepherd, so that he’d have to listen to what she wants to say. That’d have a better shot than me and him because one of us would definitely die. And I don’t know if Joy would forgive me for killing her brother, even though she threatens it with scary regularity.
“We’ll figure it out,” I assure her.
Chapter 31
Joy
I pull into the driveway at Mom and Dad’s, my palms sweaty and my nerves jangling. When I reached out to Shepherd, I proposed home as a neutral territory. My plan was to get here first, explain things to them to get them on my side, and then deal with Shepherd. That plan flies out the window when I see Shep’s big, jacked-up truck sitting on the curb out front.
“Shiiit,” I hiss. “He beat me here.”
That means he’ll have the slight advantage of talking to Mom and Dad first.
I go up to the door, but it opens in front of me. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Joy,” Shepherd barks. Great, he’s still in a mood.
I don’t pause, just push past him and into our parents’ living room to find them rocking in their recliners like this is a normal family lunch get-together. If anything, Dad looks forcibly chill, like he’s not moving unless blood starts to spill.
Vaguely, I wonder if they have a secret bag of popcorn hidden to munch on while they watch the show.
“Hey, honey!” Mom’s greeting is accompanied by a smile, but she cuts her eyes toward Shep in warning, letting me know to watch out for him.
“Hey, Mom. Dad. Shep, let’s get this over with,” I say, resigned to more emotional gutting.
“Figured you’d bring Days with you as a guard dog,” Shep sneers.
I roll my eyes as I sit down on the couch. “He went home to talk to June before her flight leaves. And I don’t need a guard dog, especially against you.” I lift a brow in challenge, daring him to take his best shot.
“You’d best not mess with your sister,” Dad warns Shep, sounding like he’s giving Shep advice as they stand out in the driveway tinkering with his truck’s engine, not warning him about his impending demise at my hand. “She’ll have you balled up on the floor in the fetal position, ugly crying, in ten words or less. And once you think you’re fine, her words’ll pop up in your head in the middle of the night, like your own private evil narrator, and you’ll fall apart all over again.” Dad gives Shepherd a pointed look that says, You know I’m right.