Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Didn’t realize wearing a tooth blocker was optional in a game where an object could potentially cause you to swallow your own fucking molar.
Wonder why that is.
Huh.
Wonder what my wife thinks about that shit.
I’ll bring that up at dinner tonight.
Show her I’ve really been learning and making an effort to learn about the ins and outs of all things hockey.
“Bricks,” James Craig calls to me from the doorway, pulling my attention over to him, away from the tablet I’m working on, “grab the pusher and a bucket. You’re on ice clearing duty.”
And of course, the task is about as much fun as it sounds like it’s gonna be.
Watching a game of three on three where Page and two of his henchmen purposely kick up extra shavings just to have me do more bitch work while they taunt me is a fucking blast.
Just like skating around the rink, sweating balls during the process, so that they can shamelessly hit on my woman is a fucking party.
Erm.
Uh.
Our boss.
The GM.
The owner.
So that they can shamelessly flirt with the owner.
That’s what I probably should’ve said.
That’s what I’m gonna pretend I actually did say.
Dumping the last big ass shovel full of ice—unfortunately for me—occurs within eavesdropping distance of Page trying to impress the very person who wants to cut him. “Your rookie is pathetic, Hennington.”
“Wise to remember that you were once a rookie, Page.”
“He acts like he’s fresh out.”
“He is fresh out, you second coming Neanderthal. He like just graduated from Vlasta.”
Page leans cockily against the railing. “And?”
“And for the two years he was Captain they won the championship.”
“So?”
“So, when’s the last time you won a championship for something other than being an asshole?”
“You must have a wall full of trophies for that, Page,” I cleverly mumble in passing, dragging the bucket along with me.
The chirp—aka trash talk—receives a giggle from Harlow, a grunted laugh from Blanc, and sneer from everyone’s least favorite player.
Person.
Species.
Whichever fits.
Craig blows a whistle from mid ice to indicate it’s time for me to get off and Page to resume the scrimmage. Skating away the same direction isn’t a problem until his knee finds its way into the back of mine prior to his elbow finding my front. The combination sends me completely backwards to where my body aggressively skids across the ice and into the boards, making me silently grateful that wearing padding and a helmet for this shit isn’t a recommendation but requirement.
Hisses echo around the arena, yet it’s seeing Harlow’s face peering over the edge, showcasing genuine concern that steals my attention. “You hurt?”
Maybe it’s because I can physically see worry in her wide-eyed gaze or maybe it’s because tending to me is more important than chewing his ass out, inevitably giving him the attention from her he craves, but either way, all pain momentarily vanishes allowing me to answer, “I’m good.”
“Fucking slew footing, Page!?” Blanc yells, appearing at Harlow’s side. “That’s some of the dirtiest shit in hockey!”
I rise to my skates at the same time he calls back, “It was an accident, Coach.”
“My ass!” Blanc barks back. “Get the fuck off my ice.”
“But-”
“You’re gonna learn to respect it and every member of this fucking team or you won’t play a goddamn minute of next season.”
“You’ll be the most expensive fucking duster in NHL history at this rate,” our boss naturally goads.
“Don’t step a fucking skate on it for a week,” Blanc instructs.
Page growls, breaks his stick in half over his knee, and tosses it my direction on a glare.
“Two,” his head coach immediately adds.
The tantrum immediately has Tyler McVie, a player they’ve had for two seasons, and Colin Somerfield, one of the affiliate team goalies, anxiously skating after him like the enablers they are.
Hard to blame ‘em.
You’re supposed to respect the veteran’s presence, but I do feel like there should be an exception to the rule when your veteran is a world class fucking douche canoe.
“Uh…Coach?” Patrick Peck, the dark-haired, blue-eyed rookie Page was talking shit about, cautiously croaks upon his arrival beside me where I’m dusting ice off my ass. “The other tendie’s gonna bail too, but mind if me and Kondelik keep running speed drills for another hour?”
Blanc’s compliment is attached to nods of approval. “Like the commitment, Peck.”
He kicks his chin a little higher. “Thanks, Coach.”
“Craig’s outta here in twenty, but if Bricks is willing to stay or you wanna clean the ice yourselves-”
“I’ll stay,” I casually volunteer and pick up the shovel. “Team needs a hand, it’s my job to be here.”
“Appreciate the dedication, Bricks,” Harlow praises, teeth stealing a small, noticeable bite to her bottom lip.
Despite how much I hate that she has to call me that during work hours, I allow myself to grin. “Appreciate the acknowledgement, boss.”
Her beam brightens over my willingness to respect the boundaries in place prompting my own to widen in return.