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)
“It’s not abstract,” she defensively argues. “You know exactly what it is.”
“I know exactly who drew it, which is why I know what it is.” Turning the green object to better face her is accompanied by a smirk. “Otherwise, it could be a spaceship.”
“No.”
“Or perhaps a sneezing nose.”
“Double minor.”
“Should I stop then or go for a major?”
The waggling of my eyebrows threatens to make her smirk.
God, I don’t even think I worked this hard when I knew there were agents in the crowd scouting me my senior year in college.
“There she is,” Harlow “Hot Rocket” Hennington, Owner and GM of the Dalvegan Dragons ice hockey franchise I’m signed to, states to Hoss upon her arrival. “Just the woman I needed to see.”
Hot Rocket would be redundant – since that’s what a rocket is by definition – if it weren’t for the fact hot was in reference to her temper rather than her smoking hot body.
Although…for a woman who had twins early this year…you sure the fuck cannot tell.
Not even in the Dalvegan green business jacket she’s somehow passing off as a full-on dress.
Great Eight Have Mercy.
She has the longest, second most wrap around my body brown legs I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
The first of course being the woman she’s here to talk to.
How the fuck Brendan “Bricks” Brickley, one of our assistant equipment managers, not only landed her but knocked her up is still the type of gino I simply cannot fathom.
A lot like Peck and his woman.
That too is a, where grandma hides the cookies, mystery.
Hell, even our yeti-sized skates leader has managed to land a snipe, marry her, and expand his family, joining the increasingly long list of relationship champions.
Huh.
Perhaps it’s just me that can’t find anything but bunnies to hop into his lap.
Which I would appreciate the media not photographing all the bloody time.
I cannot say that I love the cheeky man whore headlines I’ve been making since last season.
Honestly.
One terrible dinner with a “bikini influencer” should not create two weeks of “bikini bunny” subject lines.
Hoss clips her sharpie onto her collar, shifts her hands to her back jean pockets, and flashes the woman who controls our careers a professional grin. “What can I do for ya, Hennington?”
“I actually have a brand-new PR project for you.” She folds her fingers together directly in front of her and swivels her face in my direction. “And you, Frosky…”
I’m not sure I like where this is going.
Then again, I’m not sure that I don’t.
At this point in my unwanted – although not necessarily unwarranted – barn burner against the most incredible woman to ever exist, it’s hard to say until we’re actually on the verbal ice going skate to skate.
“Our biggest sponsor and foundation donor, Loca Mocha Casabloca, has agreed to partner with us to provide the fans with a more in-depth look into the life of their favorite player.”
“What’s that got to do with Snowman?” Hoss swiftly snips, prompting me to shoot her a narrowed stare.
Hot Rocket noticeably fights the urge to grin as she replies, “He received the most votes.”
“Can I request a recount?” asks our social media expert.
“His postgame interviews are always the most watched.”
“That could easily be an algorithm issue.”
“And his autographed, specialty jerseys always rack in the highest bids.”
“People are probably just pressing the wrong button.”
“Why is it so difficult for you to believe people like me?”
“Because I’ve met you.”
“You adore me.”
“You mean annoy,” she swiftly snips, on a sardonic cock of the head. “An easy American to Doctor Who miscommunication.”
“Doctenn.” I shake my head in minor amusement. “I am from Doctenn.”
“You wish you were a ten,” Hoss spitefully sneers.
“According to our fans, he is,” Hennington announces, recollecting our attention. “His autographed stills go for three times more than the league average.”
I knew I was a fucking beauty, but I didn’t realize I was a fucking beauty.
I mean, yes, I obviously do fairly well with the broadskies – blond hair, blue eyes, tattoos, and one of the sickest shots in sweaters makes that shit easy – but I had no fucking clue fans liked me that much.
Especially not with some of the shit I’ve read through my spy account regarding my performance on the ice as much as off.
And for the scoresheet?
Yes.
Most of us across the league fucking have a dummy account.
We wanna know shit.
But we can’t openly know shit.
So, we figure out how to learn that shit on the QT.
Like Ridley from Boston having to be moved to IR last season over a Donny involving his brother, his nutritionist, and a baking pan to the face.
Truthfully, I’ve never dropped the gloves over a female.
Not sure I ever would.
Or will.
“Even his autographed pucks – on average – bring in ten percent more revenue than any other player on the team,” Hennington proudly announces.
“Further proof, we have to be living in a shitty simulation,” the polo wearing female murmurs under her breath.