Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
"It’s not a horrible idea," one of the men says.
"Good," I say, pushing back from the table. "Since no one else has any ideas, besides Spencer.” I look over at Spencer and smile at him. “I’m going to call it and confirm this will be our weekly segment." I look around the table, waiting for someone to come back with a snide comment. "I’ll set up an email and send it to all of you with the details on how I want it, as well as any names I come up with." I gather my things off the table. "Gentlemen, this was a great first meeting." Turning, I walk toward the door, stopping when I pull it open. "And for future meetings …" My voice comes out tense. "Why don’t we stop wasting everyone’s time and actually come prepared?" I don’t give them a chance to say anything to me because I walk out. My whole neck burns, but I force myself not to show just how mad I am.
"Oh, oh," Ava says when she sees me walking back. "That didn’t take long."
"Oh, oh is right. If they thought they could come in and be all broody, they obviously didn’t do their homework." I shake my head, laughing, not adding in that my whole family is filled with broody men, starting with my father. "In other news"—I fold my arms over my chest—"we got the bad-boy segment."
Chapter 2
Wilson
I walk down the red carpet toward Martin’s office, mixing my protein shake. I just got off the ice from practice, and fuck, it felt good to be back with the guys. I took two weeks off after the end of the season, and then I started training again. I am getting older, and my body was telling me that I wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, so I wanted to be as prepared as I could this year.
"You're looking fit," Michael says when I walk past him in the hallway. He was traded here last year after he had a fight with his coach. It was plastered all over the media, but he never said a word about it to anyone.
"You're looking like you are getting the dad bod," I joke, and he laughs, shaking his head.
"Dad bod, my ass." He lifts his shirt to show me his abs.
"Gross." I shake my head and walk away from him.
Smiling at a couple of the guys, I knock on the closed door before Martin yells to come in.
Opening the door, I step in, stopping when I see Nico, the owner of the team, seated with him. "Oh, shit," I say, and they laugh when I walk into the office and close the door. "It’s like I’m in trouble or something. Going to the principal’s office."
"Nah." Martin shakes his head. He’s been the coach for the past three years, and I have nothing bad to say about him. He pushes me and never ever throws my shit in my face after the fact. He has plenty to say after I fuck up, and usually, it’s never good. At times, I’m a horse's ass and a jack-off, but after he rants, it’s done. Unlike the last coach who used to throw shit in my face all year long.
"We just wanted to have a little chat," Nico says, and I sit down in the empty chair in front of them. "Maybe go over the season a bit." He looks over at Martin. "What you expect from us and what we expect from you." Nico puts his hands together on the table, folding them. He took over the team not too long ago. His father gave it to him, but truth be told, it was a horrible, horrible team. I’ve been a Dallas player my whole career. I was drafted to them sixteenth overall in the first round, and three years ago, I signed a contract extension for six years worth thirty-one million dollars.
I get ready for our talk. "Okay, let's do it," I agree, taking a gulp of my protein shake.
"I’m going to start by saying you are a key player on our team," Nico says. "The guys love having you as one of them." I tilt my head to the side. "A little less when you fuck up, but nonetheless, you've shown them you have their back time and time again."
"That’s a good way of putting it." I laugh at both of them. Before Nico took over for the team and actually wanted us to succeed, we were at the bottom of the standing every fucking year. It was brutal. It started one game with frustration. We were losing our tenth straight game, and I just fucking swung at the first person I saw. It didn’t help that it was after the whistle, but it put some juice in the boys. We are a team. Did it always help? Fuck, no. At least for that game. We still ended the season at the bottom of the list. But when I would see my teammates just defeated, I would drop the gloves.