Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Then the snickering started. My teammates were reading the bumper sticker. I smiled.
I didn’t have to look at it to know what it said. Ask Me About my Micropenis. I’d snuck it onto the bumper of his truck when we got home from our road trip yesterday, knowing he wouldn’t see it since he always backed into his parking space.
“I know it was you, Reilly,” he said, coming over to me and slamming it down on the wooden bench I stood next to. “You think you’re so funny.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, keeping my expression neutral. “But I do have some questions about your micropeen.”
Someone on the other side of the locker room laughed out loud, and a vein in Alvarado’s forehead started throbbing.
“Dude, Laura and I are living with her parents while our house is being remodeled, and her dad’s a pastor,” Eric said. “My father-in-law wasn’t amused when he saw this on my truck in his driveway.”
Wes approached Eric, stopping right next to him and crossing his arms.
“You seem to be able to dish it out but not take it,” he said.
Eric rolled his eyes. “Those pictures of Nash were all in good fun. They didn’t hurt anyone.”
Wes furrowed his brow, confused. “If that bumper sticker hurt someone, they need to nut up.”
“Hey, I’ve got somewhere I need to be,” I said, picking up the magnetic bumper sticker and sliding it into my bag. “See you guys tomorrow.”
“We’re not done here, Nash,” Alvarado said.
I scoffed. “Yeah, we are. I wouldn’t say another word if I were you, but you’re not the smartest guy, so do you have anything else to say?”
Wes clapped him on the shoulder. “Nope, he’s good. Right, Eric?”
I didn’t look back to see if Alvarado would say anything else. I knew he wouldn’t. No one fucked with their team captain. At least no one who wanted to stay on a team. And Eric wasn’t exactly in demand, so he’d keep his mouth shut.
I grinned. That had gone well. And he’d even given me the bumper magnet back, so I could put it back on his truck after the next road trip.
When I walked into my house after practice, the welcoming committee descended on me, tails wagging.
Louie, my black bernedoodle, was the biggest, so I wasn’t even able to set down my keys and bag before his feet were on my chest and he was giving me a kiss. Athena, my German shepherd mix, had been taught manners by a previous owner before I got her from the local rescue all three of my dogs came from, so she hung back, sitting and waiting. Her tail still swished, though. And my bulldog Archie waited for me to bend down and greet him like I always did. He was seven now, and his jumping days were over.
“Were you guys good?” I asked them. “Do you want to eat?”
That always got them excited—especially Archie. I went into my laundry room and opened the closet full of dog supplies, scooping every dog’s individual food into their bowls.
They cost me a ton of money, but my dogs were my family. All three of them had been rescued from bad situations, and I employed a local guy who fed and cared for them when I couldn’t because of my hockey schedule. When I went on road trips, he stayed at my house to dog sit.
While the dogs ate, I checked my phone, wondering if Sariah had texted. Something about her had intrigued me when we exchanged texts the day before yesterday. I liked that she seemed to be putting her thoughts directly out there, telling me what she was really thinking and feeling.
A downside of being me was that women usually tried to be impressive. They always seemed to be “on” with full faces of makeup, filtered photos, and an eagerness to do whatever I wanted to do. Tinder was loaded with women looking for a partner to “adventure” with, complete with mountain climbing and sailing photos.
What I missed about having someone was the completely unscripted moments. Cooking brunch together, no one caring how their hair looked in the morning, or what shoes they had on.
The at-home weekend look was one of my biggest turn-ons—a woman wearing a pair of boxers and a tank top, with no makeup on and her long hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. Even better if she was wearing glasses.
As a pro hockey player who’d been named one of the fifteen sexiest athletes, I hadn’t seen that side of a woman in a long time. I guess that was why I’d told Sariah my name was Rob—just in case she connected the name Nash with the sexiest athlete thing.
No messages from her. And damned if that wasn’t refreshing in itself. She was single, obviously—she’d told me about her breakup. So reaching out to her wouldn’t be wrong.