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)
Or maybe it would be better for their shots average but ruin their marriage.
Every Huey, Dewey, and Louie with a motherfucking Tok account has an opinion about every move we make down to the way we lace up our skates despite the fact more than half of them have never stepped foot on the ice let alone in The Show.
From a personal standpoint?
I don’t give a fuck about who’s fucking who that I’m friends with. And if we are friends – which isn’t a term I use loosely – then I already know that shit because we text or shoot the shit for a couple pre or post a game or maybe cross paths in offseason.
Seeing every little thing I do or don’t do – where I shop for gear, where I take my daughter to play, why I didn’t wanna pose for a photo with a drunk fan in the middle of an anniversary dinner with my fucking parents – with stupid fucking headlines is so fucking draining.
In fact, staying away from soc’ shit is one way I stay sane.
And keep my head in the game.
And my reputation from being about anything other than what I have to offer for whoever it is I put on my 3Ps for.
Er.
Most of the time.
I’ve unfortunately been a lot less lucky in that department for the past couple of years.
Once I’m on our team page, I meet her gaze again for the next set of instructions.
“Find the opening night photo of you.”
I swipe down a bit down past some of the in pracky promo shots and team videos used to get fans more interested in us personally to spot the picture I’m here to explain. The family photo on display is undeniably scroll stopping. Between the adorableness of my daughter and tight embrace of those surrounding her, I can see why the photo has so many likes.
Comments.
Shares.
My parents are sporting pride and adoration while Bella looks happy and loved, like she’s got two parents to take care of her for the first time in her life. And Joey…well, Joey looks like she belongs in the mix. Like she’s destined to be called a Slayer. And the way my arm is draped around her, it’s clear I believe the same thing.
Fuck. Me.
I don’t know whether to apologize for the photo or make it my fucking background.
“Now, Alexeyev,” Hennington indulges in a long, slow, lick of her spoon, “I’mma ask you some questions, but hundy P? You lie to me? You’ll be out four to six.”
“You gonna break a digit?”
“I’m gonna fucking trade you.”
Another deep, nervous swallow is executed.
“Is the woman in the photo the same woman you put in the hospital almost a week ago?”
“Yes.”
“Was having her sit on the bench with your family a publicity stunt to insure she doesn’t sue?”
“No.”
Displeasure doesn’t hesitate to deepen in her warm, honey brown complexion. “Then what the fuck was she doing there?!”
“You arranged for my family to be there for warmies-”
“She’s not fucking family!”
“-and while she’s not family, per se-”
“Did you just top cheddar word me?!”
“-she is my daughter’s nanny; therefore, her being there fits in the family criteria department.”
“You hired her to be your fucking nanny?!”
“Technically, she hired herself.”
“What?!” is flung my direction as is whatever bit of ice cream was left on her spoon. “What the fuck does that mean?!”
“She uh…” Cringing unconsciously occurs. “She woke up with Bella in her arms…and thought that’s who she was…and I…just…went with it.”
“Why?!”
An innocent shrug bounces my large shoulders. “I really needed a fucking nanny.”
Hennington’s bright brown eyes widen to the size of the rink.
“Real talk, GM. You know I was desperate for a nanny!” My mouth gets away from me similar to that of an iced puck. “I was looking for one all of summer! Since before the end of the season even! And I couldn’t find shit! You know I couldn’t find shit! I was out of options! I was out of-”
“Your goddamn mind!” She shrieks, spoon flying from her possession towards the doorway. “This has to be – by far – the dumbest shit one of you pylons have done this season!”
“The season just started.”
“I know!”
Oh.
Definitely missed the goal there.
Hot Rocket sucks in a seething breath through her gritted teeth, prompting me to not only give my t-shirt collar a tug but to brace myself for what will most likely be the check of a lifetime. “You wanna talk technicalities? Fine. I technically can’t tell you what you can and cannot do in your personal life-”
“True.”
“However,” she discards the slightly crushed container on the nearby banister edge, “I can sussy you or cut you completely for embarrassing the crest on your sweater according to the team code of conduct.”
“No, yeah. Also true.”
“Therefore – look I can use that word too – I’m gonna say this shit. One. Time.” Her pregnant frame rotates to lean threateningly forward. “If this whole fuckshow comes back to bite you in the ass publicly, you’re done here, permanently.”