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)
“And the others?”
“Sameskies.” Disbelief and elation brawl for the rightful position in my stare but are both banished to the box by her harsh scowl, “Now hustle, Hoss. I wasn’t kidding about traffic. It’s like The Nightmare Before New Year out there.”
Post ushering Joey to the couch to wait for my speedy transformation, I make sure to do exactly that.
Swapping out of my comfortable hoodie for a tight, short, bright green, sequins jersey dress with side pockets and Tanner’s name as well as number on the back doesn’t take long.
Getting into the black high top tennis shoes – that are surprisingly the right size – is also done swiftly.
Fuck, even dabbling on just enough makeup to look “Slayer appropriate” is done in record timing.
But deciding what to do with my hair?
My fucking hair?!
Of all things that I normally give little to no high fucks about…?
That becomes the real Nightmare Before New Year no one needs.
And having a pair of his miniature warrior figurines judging alongside a mohawk bearing rubber duck from the bathroom counter while I panic only somehow adds more stress.
Rushing out of my bedroom with my brush prepared for battle puts me face to face with a view so adorable, I wish it was one I could post for the night instead.
The tiny bowl of mousse is balanced on top of her very round stomach while she shovels away the contents, I was clearly done eating. Bear releases a huff from my side to announce our presence yet the mama Slayer to be simply, scoops up another bite, and informs, “Low pony, I’ve got the right shade of ribbon in the car.”
Wellfuckme.
Does being head Slayer give you magical mindreading powers?!
“Unlike The Princess Switch we were not about to give last year’s bowpocalypse a sequel.”
I remember that shit.
I had never seen so many grown ass women get into a bitch fest about hair wear.
Thankfully, the two biggest pains got traded making them someone else’s seasonal headache.
And now that I think about it…they probably would’ve been the two that wouldn’t want me around.
They would’ve been the ones to snitch.
Afterall, I don’t “fit” the narrative.
Which is why they gave Joey herself so much hell last season.
She’s different.
Unremarkable.
But different than what they were used to or more accurately wanted to be around.
Led by.
Our journey from my place to The Frost Luxury Hotel is agonizingly long.
Not because I can’t stand Joey or her dedication to the Christmas season no matter what month it is but because of the anxiousness.
Anticipation.
This will be my first event as an official Slayer.
Basically, my hockey coronation.
The irony of course being that was one of the words on his crossword puzzle this week.
What if Joey’s wrong?
What if he doesn’t want me there like that?
What if he just wanted to toss back a few brewskies with the boys, and I don’t know…celly with just them?
What if he wanted to flirt with random puck pussy to keep those skills sharp for when we eventually split?
Not that I want us to split or think about the day he’ll come to his senses and realize we should.
That I’m not the soc’ trending material he needs me to be.
Of course, I don’t stay up at night and think about that after he’s snuck back into his hotel room when we’re on the roadskies.
I just…don’t not stay up and think about it.
Getting her car valeted, us through the impressively tight security, and into the actual sea of bodies swaying around in the frigid temperatures puts us much closer to the midnight countdown than I assume she or Cap predicted given the nervous, crowd scouting nature we can see from afar.
Beside him on the couch, under the white tent and draped lighting, is the man who won first star of the game for the night thanks to his two points, two assists, and impeccable aid in blocking a shot we all swore was going in, showing off a half-hearted grin between sips of his beer.
Other players are all over their Slayers.
Kissing.
Groping.
Some totally unfranchised approved concoction of the two.
Photos are snapped left and right yet each one he leans out of.
Almost like he doesn’t want to remember being “single”.
Like he doesn’t want to make any sort of headline about being “alone”.
Over the past couple of months, when the press does report about him, it’s been more stats and game related – with a few exceptions.
I guess it helps that most of our dates are behind closed doors or doing random shit he would never be recognized doing such as attending a cycle ball match.
Yeah.
That’s a really random sport and no matter how much he begs I’m not on board with us joining a recreational team over the summer.
We continue to close the gap as other females not permitted in the section desperately vie for the boys’ attention, something Wahl, Potato, and Payne – who had to be called up due to Peck’s injury – can’t seem to get enough of.