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)
And not just because of the noisy ass piece of machinery making for the worst mood music a person could think of.
I get the feeling that being with Harlow is gonna be just like playing her favorite sport.
It’s gonna take patience.
Practice.
And above all else fucking stamina to keep up with the constant emotional line changes.
I have no doubts that I’ll master this shit eventually.
Just hope that eventually happens before that final divorce time buzzer.
Harlow
Trying to assemble the perfect fantasy hockey team is stressful.
Trying to actually assemble and manage the best team you can afford is absolutely fucking more stressful but not by the significant amount it should be.
Maybe because I’ve basically been training for this moment since I could walk, which wasn’t a memory I expected to share with Brendan a couple weeks ago.
I also wasn’t planning to take him on a literal jog through memory lane.
Or to create a new memory.
Or memories to be more accurate.
That first kiss was followed by our first trip to the grocery store—something we’ve done a couple more times since but that he tends to do on his own for both the main house and guesthouse, although I demand that I foot the bill. It was also followed by our first homemade meal together, and our first make out sesh on the couch, which could’ve—and probably would’ve—led to more had it not been for the mini goalie growing inside me stopping the action with a round of vomiting.
Which I’m thankfully doing a lot less now.
The change in diet—prompted by Brendan’s research and backed by Margot’s demand I listen to it—has definitely helped.
And finally being past the most important post-season, pre-season moment does as well.
I don’t care what anyone fucking says.
The draft is the most fucking stressful time of the year.
That shits like if Christmas fucked Valentine’s Day and your wedding day in a three way.
It’s just non-stop anxiety until everything you’ve ever consumed in your entire life is coming out of every possible orifice of your body.
Pretty sure at one point my fucking eyes were puking.
I’m grateful that shit is finally fucking over.
And I’m equally grateful for our picks.
The thing I’m currently most grateful for?
Being home.
I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but I actually…really…missed Brendan while I was away.
We’re talking so fucking much that I put my “wedding ring” back on the first night while we were texting before bed and haven’t taken it off since. I’m not entirely sure why I took it with me to begin with. Maybe because I wanted a little “piece of him” around me for good luck? Maybe because it felt like he was “there” with me? Whatever the fucking case was, I’m glad I brought it because it absolutely eased some of the ache, I wasn’t expecting to feel from not sharing a simple cup of coffee together in the morning. Or what’s become our breakfast smoothie routine, which includes so many different types of fucking berries. Or from not letting him drive us to the barn and having him pop by on lunch to drop off something for me to eat in between meetings, saving Margot a little time to get to another item on her check list—such as lysoling the guest chairs—complete. Most of all, I underestimated how much I’d miss relaxing beside him on the couch after a round of air hockey to watch sports highlights until I doze off. I…admittedly…like the way he wraps his arm on my shoulder and kisses the side of my forehead when he thinks I’m passed out. That shit has somehow become the single most important play of my day.
I was fucking crushed we got home so late last night or should I say this morning.
I couldn’t blame him for already being asleep when I walked through the door.
He did sleepily kiss me goodnight before stumbling back to the guesthouse.
It wasn’t exactly a perfect welcome home, yet it was.
And it was the type I couldn’t help imagining I’ll have a lot more of in the future, except then he’ll be holding our baby.
Fuck, I hope it’s a boy.
My fast approaching of the guesthouse unexpectedly starts to slow down due to the sight of Cookies and Cream lingering near one of the living room’s wide-open windows. Unsure of why they’re there of all places has me cautiously creeping closer; however, the instant I see Cookie’s mouth open wide to receive some sort of treat it’s quite obvious what they’re doing.
They’re being spoiled by treats from the person who seemed terrified he was going to accidentally murder one while goat sitting this week.
Changing tactics from a direct entry to the house to spying on him from the side between the two of them leads to me discovering what can only be described as a comical vision. Brendan’s stretched out legs are propped up on the nearby coffee table while he uses his upper, ripped, bare chest like a small bowl to house the popcorn he’s chomping on and periodically tossing to my pets. The hand not being used for eating—or refilling the peck picnic area—is gripping onto a bottle of Runt’s beer that is being pointed at the flatscreen in an accusatory fashion.