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)
A confident nod precedes a simple, “Da.”
All of a sudden, her eyes widen to the size of practice pucks, convincing me to abandon the small amount of hope I had grabbed. “You hit this chick. So. Fucking. Hard. That you gave her amnesia?!”
Ohhhhh.
Now, I hear it.
Yeah, no.
Not a good thing.
A concussion would’ve definitely been better.
“Gotta admit, Eeyore, that’s a pretty impressive hit,” Bricks compliments, causing his wife to scoldingly scoff in his direction. “Awful for the woman,” he quickly reiterates to calm down Hennington who turns back to face me, “awesome for opening tomorrow.”
“I didn’t hit her that hard!”
“He didn’t,” Adelstein surprisingly sighs between finger taps on the screen. “We’ve already reviewed the footage. Twelve times by six different sets of eyes.”
Thank fuck.
I needed that point after my previous one got revoked.
“Most social media headlines are – thankfully – reporting him as a ‘Hockey Dad Hero’ except for Ramirez who is calling him a ‘Hockey Dad Hazard’.”
“I was expecting worse,” Bricks casually comments.
“’Bout on par for that Mighty Twat,” the GM swiftly rebuts.
“And let me clarify what dissociative amnesia actually is because it most likely isn’t what any of you are probably thinking,” she smoothly continues, index finger now scrolling the device. “First and foremost, it’s way less Nicholas Sparks level of romantic.”
“Who the fuck is Nicholas Sparks?” Hennington cluelessly chomps.
“The Notebook. A Walk To Remember. Message in a Bottle,” I thoughtlessly ramble off only to be met by three skeptical stares that stop me from mentioning any others. “Get Bent.” My defensiveness is more in line with my usual gruff demeanor. “They’re fuckin’ movies. I’ve banged chicks who watch movies.”
Not the reason I know them, but that’s also not footage we need to review.
“That was…unsettling,” Adelstein quietly murmurs prior to regaining control of the conversation. “Most people hear amnesia and assume a person completely forgets who they are-”
“That’s literally what it means,” Bricks offhandedly argues.
“Okay, Blue’s Clues,” Adelstein sassily snips with a snarky smirk, “this is the part where you stop talking and hear what the audience has to say.”
Bella loves that show.
And I’m grateful it’s more tolerable than others like Blippi.
Fuck, I wanna check that annoying asshole into the boards so hard he does get the “completely forget who you are” type of amnesia.
Do the whole world over the age of three a huge solid.
“Dissociative amnesia means she forgets segments of her life. Specific periods or events usually triggered by something traumatic. A gap in her memory is momentarily created and can be regained at a later date.” If I didn’t know any better, I would say amusement begins dancing around her stare as she meets Hennington’s. “Similar to your Vegas escapade sans the booze.”
She good naturedly sneers back at her second in command while her husband cockily winds his arm around her lower waist.
“The if and when the memory can or will return depends directly on how her mind processes the events, which always varies patient to patient.”
“So, basically, Eeyore hit her so hard her brain just declared itself a scratch for the night but didn’t put itself on LTIR?” Hennington’s reference to hockey injuries is one of the things me and the boys love so fucking much about her.
She speaks our language.
Then she speaks to us in our language.
It makes harder shit so much fucking easier to deal with.
It’s her assistant’s turn to gag at the comparison. “Yes.”
“Okay,” the owner to the last team I ever hope to play for in the league slowly nods and redirects her glare to me, “suit up, Cap.”
There’s no stopping my light eyebrows from scrunching together in confusion.
“Get your ass back in there and find out exactly what she remembers.”
Chapter 2
Joey
You know what’s weird?
This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up with a child this close to my face.
At least this one doesn’t have scissors.
“Hi!” squeaks the blonde pigtailed preschool aged girl snuggled up next to me.
I offer her a similar bright beam. “Hi!”
“I be Bella,” she sweetly announces, tiny pale fingers petting portions of my thick, curly, dark brown hair that’s crazily surrounding my light café brown skinned face. “And you be Princess Belle from the party!”
That explains the bright yellow ballgown I’m wearing.
Dressing up for a children’s party is much better than the being kidnapped by a serial rapist who happens to have a Disney princess fantasy he’s determined to live out conclusion I had come to in my own head.
I’m not always a worst-case scenario person, but I also know life is rarely Christmas movie perfect like I wish it were.
Seriously.
What are the chances that a hot cabin owner and his adorable daughter are going to nurse me back to health while teaching me the power of self-discovery?
Yeah.
I’m not Lindsay Lohan.
And my memory absence is more of an ongoing lifetime problem.
Not a sweet meet-cute moment.
Now, let’s see what other hints I can collect to solve my brain’s latest fucked up version of Clue that it likes to play.