Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Daddy you number is four two,” my daughter announces at the same time she taps my sweater. “And Dedu number is two four. They have same!”
“We do share the same numbers,” I happily acknowledge, using the edge of the area for leverage during my lower leg stretching. “You’re so smart!”
At least, I hope so.
I’m not exactly a great measure of how much a kid her age should know.
But Joey is.
And something tells me with her around, I’ll have to worry less about Bella in that department.
Maybe even in all departments.
Banishing that thought is easy thanks to Kel-C returning with the crew for recording and photos. “Everyone group closer together by Alexeyev!”
My parents scooting over prompts Joey to create space for me to lean over into the photo, but in doing so, it also exposes to me a problem. A big fucking problem even though it probably shouldn’t be. “Uh…where’s your number, Joey?”
“Nanny Joey,” Mom offhandedly corrects, momentarily collecting my glare. “Relationship labels are – evidently – very important at this age, Daddy.”
“And really important when a child has a continuously changing environment,” the woman here to turn our lives upside down adds.
“Alright.” My surrender is easy. Immediate. “Where is your number, Nanny Joey?”
She stops watching Bella toy with her curls to meet my investigative stare. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not wearing my number.”
“I am wearing your jersey.”
“Sweater.”
“What?”
“They’re called sweaters.”
“Sweaters, Nanny Joey,” Bella needlessly echoes like she’s truly adding something to the conversation.
“Noted,” she mutters in irritation.
“And I meant on your face.”
Her gloss covered lips barely get the chance to move.
“Why not?” Hurt does its best to hide itself from being heard. “Why don’t you wanna wear my number on your face?” There isn’t even an opportunity for her to take a breath. “Am I not that important? Am I not worth it? Am I not good enough for you?”
“I just ran out of tattoos,” she quickly reassures. “Poor counting on my part.”
Relief hurries to take its place in my gaze. “That it?”
“That’s it.”
“Easy fix then.”
“Wh-”
“Hoss!” I call out to the light brown skinned woman directing the camera guy. “Throw me one!”
Without missing a beat, Ardin Hoss unhooks a sharpie from the collar of her Dalvegan’s polo and tosses it in my direction.
She’s gotta be the only chick in the building you can always guarantee has a sharpie on her.
Not really sure why.
Although, I’ve heard Groffee – formally known as Groff – say it’s to draw dicks on Snowman’s shit for always being a dick.
Joey immediately attempts to repeat whatever it was she was trying to say earlier as I ditch one glove. “Wha-”
“Easy,” falling out of my mouth is followed by me using my teeth to take off the lid to the marker, “fix.”
Objective jaw bounces instantly appear, yet the second my hand lands softly on her face they stop.
And so does her breath.
And mine.
And the entire fucking arena.
Despite knowing for a fact that we’re in a room with thousands of people, thousands of people waiting to watch me fail or succeed or simply fight, it feels like it’s just us.
Like together we’re the perfect pair of blades finding their once in a lifetime player and touching their first stretch of ice as one.
It’s exciting.
Terrifying.
All and more, all at once.
My thumb thoughtlessly strokes the smooth patch of skin equally intoxicated by its softness as much as the shivers she’s desperately trying to hide.
Fuck, man.
Are my hands that cold or does she wish they were somewhere else?
Perhaps lower?
Perhaps much lower?
Deep, possessive grumbles get forcefully swallowed again and again during the unsteady drawing.
Fuck. Me.
Why does this feel so goddamn right when I know it’s fucked up wrong?
“You have any idea how hard this is gonna be to get off of me?”
“Da.”
“Da?” She struggles not to snicker. “As in yes? As in you’re just totally fine with that?”
“Da.” Smirking can’t be helped. “I actually kinda like it.”
Her bright brown stare tries to latch onto my blue pushing me to concentrate harder on the work in progress rather than the statement I meant to think, not say.
Once I’m finished, I lean a bit nearer and lightly blow on the ink not wanting it to smudge. Not wanting there to be any question regarding who she’s here to see.
Which player she belongs to.
Will someday permanently belong to.
Nope.
The sieve in my fucking brain needs to be blocking more of these thoughts.
I can’t think like that.
I can’t afford to think like that.
“That shit’s sloppier than your contract signature,” Father judges on an amused headshake.
“Ish,” Joey and I correct in tandem.
“Tiny ears, tiny words, Dedu!” Bella chastises, causing us all to open mouth laugh.
“Ohhhhh!” Kel-C girlishly squeaks around enthusiastic clapping. “Tell me you’re getting some of this footage, Hoss! Fans love family moments like this!”
“You have got to stop squawking at me like that,” Hoss grumbles on an eyeroll. “You sound like a Toucan trying to get his feathers touched.”