Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
With the way she huffs and puffs and verbally kicks me in the dick, you’d think I was asking her for a twelve mill, four-year franchise extension when I’ve spent the last six months on LTIR.
And it’s only me she puts the “fuck off” crest on her chest for.
And honestly?
That’s really not the “only me” privies I’m looking for.
“You haven’t answered a single segment question this week,” Hoss grumbles from where she’s sitting on our bench in the rink. “You want me to get fired?”
“I want to get to know you.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want you to know her,” Khurana rudely interjects in tandem with lowering his camera. “Maybe she doesn’t want someone who was caught over the summer putting a Barcelona bunny into a Lyft after a quickie in a club back alley to know her. Maybe she doesn’t want someone who can’t think with anything besides his dick to have that much personal information about her.”
“First off, that Barcelona bunny wasn’t a bunny, but a mate’s very lost sister in town for an architectural conference.” My glove covered palms land firmly on the banister at the same time I bite, “And maybe you weren’t invited into this conversation.”
“Maybe she wants me in it.”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter what she wants.”
“And maybe that’s why she would rather ride a Zamboni than you.”
Hoss snickers and extends him her fist for bumping.
One check.
That’s all it would take to scratch his Machiavellian tactics from a play.
Stick taps to Father for that crossword answer this morning.
Double stick taps for it finding its way into another part of my day.
“Snowman, I have to show Hennington something from this Masked Moron reality nightmare by the end of the day and raw footage of you lacing up your pracky skates isn’t going to cut it.”
I take the open shot to speak the only language I swear she understands.
Asshole.
Cocky. Asshole. To be more precise.
Impishly bouncing my eyebrows is attached to the smug question, “You want more of me, aye?”
“I – Hoss – want nothing from you as I’m not looking to fall into an STD thirst trap.”
“I do not have an STD.”
“STI then,” she brushes off with an unbothered roll of the eyes.
“Not that either.”
“The Hot Rocket that signs your paycheck – on the other hand – wants the world to get to know you and all your William Wallace like drive.”
Pushing away the arrogant act mindlessly occurs while leaning closer to ask, “Was that a Braveheart reference?”
Genuine excitement pierces her gaze. “You’ve seen Braveheart?”
“You’ve seen Braveheart?”
“Did I or did I not just make the reference, Frosky?”
Light chortles can’t be helped; however, they unfortunately can be interrupted.
“Line ‘em up, boys!” Our head coach, Milano Blanc, commands from the opposite side of the rink.
“Gotta get to work,” I casually announce preparing to skate off. “You should do the same.”
“I am doing the same,” she unhappily hisses. “I’m not here for fun.”
“Perhaps you’d have better results if you were.”
Getting the last line in has me hastily exiting to prevent hearing her retort.
I don’t need to have the final word.
I just need her to not always have it.
My arrival next to Patrick Peck – occasionally known as Pecks – our black hair and blue-eyed second year center who probably spends equal amounts of time on the ice and on the phone with his girl has him cheerfully greeting me. “Snowman!”
His too enthusiastic tone prompts me to quirk an eyebrow. “You good, Pecks?”
“I’m fucking amazing!” More players begin to congregate around the space across from the coaches. “Wings flies in tonight!”
“That sounds oddly redundant.”
An almost bashful smile precedes him explaining, “That’s my fiancée.”
“Right.”
Can’t forget this fucking beauty is faithfully off the market.
It makes him the undisputed champ of cock blocks.
Which is exactly why Cap had him babysitting me and Becks every chance he could last season.
Definitely brought down my SOG.
For sex.
Not hockey.
Ironically enough it helped bring that average up.
Sometimes I think if I would’ve intervened a little more or a little harder like that with Becks, he’d still be here.
On this team.
In our sport.
Not debating whether or not to interview for bullshit podcast host positions.
“She can finally move in with me,” his glee continues to pump out of him. “Again.”
“Again?”
“We lived together back in college.”
“Why didn’t she move with you when you signed?” My head cocks itself to the side in question. “Didn’t wanna live in Texas?”
“Nah.” A bit of the brightness in his stare immediately dulls. “Health shit.”
Concern instantly coats my gaze. “She’s good now, aye?”
The shrug he offers is half-hearted. “Better.”
“Where is fucking Potato?” shouts Thomas Ewers, our assistant coach, to the group. “And that other call up, Payne?”
“Med,” replies Cap during his slow skate over to my side. “Pre-season piss tests.”
Ewers grumbles his understanding and hits Coach with a questioning look. “Wait?”
“How long, Cap?” Blanc tosses out.
“Pyat'.” Almost instantly he grunts to himself as a reminder to translate. “Five minutes. Tops.”