Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
“Great.” He inclines his head toward the shoulder. “I’ll pull over.”
“Sounds good.”
BJ pulls ahead, puts the Jeep in park, and hops out as I detach my hockey bag. While he secures my bike on the rack, I toss my bag and stick into the trunk alongside his. I follow him to the passenger side and am momentarily perplexed when he opens the door. Then I realize he’s being polite.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” I’m not used to guys with manners.
He grins, his smile both disarming and lopsided. “No problem. Hop on in.”
I climb up and settle into the passenger seat, breathing the scent of his cologne and something vaguely cinnamon-y as I fasten my belt.
BJ rounds the hood and waits while an approaching truck passes before he takes his place behind the wheel.
“Thanks for the ride.” I run my hands down my thighs, feeling awkward.
“It’s my pleasure, and I owe you after this morning. I really am sorry.” He gives me a chagrined smile and checks his mirrors before he pulls onto the road.
I steal furtive glances, checking out the pretty art decorating his right arm.
“How’s the knee and the road rash?”
“It’s fine.” I washed and dressed it all after my shower. My knee is banged up, and the back of my leg is raw, but it’ll scab over in a day or two.
He glances at me before refocusing his attention on the road ahead of him. “Fine is usually what people say when they’re the opposite.”
“I play hockey. I’ve had worse injuries.” I tap the scar on my chin and change the subject. “So is BJ short for something?”
He grins. “It is.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. “You gonna tell me what it stands for, or am I supposed to guess?”
His smile widens. “Depends on whether you want a direct answer or the fun of trying to figure it out.”
“Should I assume your parents aren’t assholes and it isn’t short for blow job?” I slap a hand over my mouth, wishing I could shove those back in my stupid word hole.
BJ throws his head back and laughs. “You would be correct. My parents aren’t assholes, and you aren’t the first or the last person to say that, so you can stop being mortified. I hang out with a lot of hockey-playing dudes, and their brains reside in their jockstraps.”
I chuckle, shifting in my seat so I’m angled toward him. “Okay, does the J stand for Junior, or is it a hyphenated name?”
That earns me another lopsided grin. “Well-played. The J is for Junior.”
“Okay, cool. Well, that narrows things down to names that start with B. What about Brad?”
“Nope.”
“Brent? Bill? Bernard? Bobby?”
“All nopes.”
“Bartholomew? Brandon? Brayden?”
He shakes his head.
I continue to lob B names at him, but none of them hits the mark.
He tosses me a hint. “Remember I said I spend a lot of time with hockey players.”
I tap my lip. “Oh wait! Is the B your last name, not your first?”
“You got it.”
I fire off a bunch of last names, but all of them are wrong. There are a lot of hockey families in the area, many of them retired NHL players. The new arena was funded by some of the most legendary players in the league, including Alex Waters and Rook Bowman—his son got called up to play for Philly in June. There’s even a program called the Hockey Academy that every up-and-coming player in the state wants to be part of.
“You’re not a Butterson, are you?” I’m mostly being tongue in cheek. I know one of the Butterson girls. Lovey works at the foodbank and the Salvation Army, both of which I frequent on the regular. She has four brothers and a twin sister.
“You’re getting closer.”
“Seriously?” I take in his profile. He’s so familiar, and I don’t think it’s because I’ve run into him before today. “You’re not a Ballistic, are you?”
BJ’s eyebrows lift and lower in time with his reply. “Ding, ding, ding.”
I let that sink in. “Hold the fuck on. Does that mean Randy Ballistic is your…dad?” I try to keep my voice from getting pitchy at the end, but I don’t think I’m successful. Living in the lake district means I’m aware of the retired hockey players who’ve made it their home. But knowing they’re around and actually seeing them up close and personal is a whole different story.
“He is.” BJ glances at me again, maybe trying to gauge my response.
I really need to not fangirl, but holy shit, I’m about to get on the ice with the son of a hockey legend. It’s a bit of a mindfuck. I nod a couple of times, tapping on the armrest. “Cool.” And then I absorb the reality of his name. “Wait, you go by Ballistic Junior?”
“Balls Junior, actually.”
I frown. “But why?”
He shrugs and chuckles. “That’s what my friends have called me for years, and it stuck. My actual name is Randall Ballistic the third, but that sounds pretentious and douchey. My parents call me Randall, and my friends call me BJ. I think it’s partly because my dad’s best friend used to call him Randy Balls, and my aunt Violet dubbed him Horny Nutsack.”