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)
“Hennington!” Helena Hill over enthusiastically squeals, petite body bouncing so that the work her push up bra is doing can be admired in her mock ref button up blouse. “I was hoping to see you sooner rather than later!” She doesn’t give me the chance to respond to the comment before she’s eyeballing Brendan in a way that has my fist curling. “What’d you bring me today? Rookie or callup?”
“I didn’t bring you dick, Hill.”
My bitter bite is disregarded with a playful giggle and hand toss my direction, yet her attention stays planted on him. “Hennington is always giving me shit. It’s like our thing.”
It’s not our thing!
She just seems too dumb or too daft or too desperate to graduate from bunny to rabbit to realize it.
“Fun,” Brendan casually comments at the same time he slides his arm around my waist so that his hand can rest on my hip, “our thing is making out in public spaces.” His arrogant grin encourages me to grow my own. “You might actually get to see it later like I saw this.”
Her shoulders noticeably drop in disappointment. “Oh, I um…I didn’t realize the GM could date players. I thought there was a league law or something.”
“Not a player,” the man that’s tucking me closer to him informs.
“You just crush a lot?” I helplessly tease, looking his direction.
Brendan’s eyebrows immediately furrow indicating he doesn’t get the reference.
There’s no stopping the outrage from leaving my lips. “Fucking seriously? You don’t know that song?”
“It’s a song?”
It’s also the fuckboy mantra, but now does not seem like a goodtime to add that jab.
Not with little Miss Sahara over here still looking for a drop.
“Must be an old song,” Helena quickly tries to comfort him, “because I don’t know it, either.”
Oh…what a clever little bunny.
Make me out to be the old woman who lives in the skate so that she can cuddle up to a new potential meal ticket.
Yeah.
Not happening.
“Craziest shit about being old enough to know that song is that I’m also old enough to have this much money, which helps fund your paycheck, so how about you go open us up one of the private dressing rooms in the back and then skate off to the wings where you can wait to do your job aka the assist.”
Hill curtly nods, tucks her stringy, long brown hair behind her ear, and struts away in her stilettos, swaying her hips extra hard in hopes that he’ll sneak a glimpse of her ass that’s basically suffocating for air in her black, form fitting miniskirt.
Fuck. Me.
I now hate her for being able to wear fucking miniskirts while I’m going to have to start wearing moo moos or whatever those oversized t-shirts are called.
I don’t even like miniskirts.
It’s the principle of the fucking matter!
“That was hot,” Brendan casually states causing me to instantly sneer.
There’s no stopping my head from whipping around in order for us to be face to face. “Look, Monopoly Jr., just because you’re both still ring pop age doesn’t mean you’d be a good match for one another’s roster, okay? Yeah, she’s hot. And yeah, her waistline and brain size are probably the same making her perfect for the shit she’s looking for which isn’t you. She’s looking to be someone’s Stanley Cup for a season or two and you deserve better. You deserve some Ovi shit. You should be with a woman who isn’t afraid to get after it, to fucking work for it, to break records and shatter ceilings and do shit that people said she couldn’t do. You deserve to be with someone who is actually fucking great, not just someone who looks fucking great.”
“Good thing I already am.”
His unexpected response renders me speechless.
Brendan lets his brown gaze burrow deeper into mine to drive home his point.
Okay.
We really are doing this couple shit…like…all the time? Not just when we’re alone? Not just when the world—outside of Margot—can’t see? Should we be using labels? Fuck, I can’t even remember the last time I did. Which ones should we be using? Should I be using them every time I introduce him to someone?! Where is the playbook for this shit?
Maybe I should ask Letty?
No. Her dating record is as scarce as my own.
Oh!
I’ll text Winslow.
He’s been pussy whipped enough times in life to give me some good pointers.
“What I meant,” his fingers dig deeper into the area on my hip he’s gripping, “was I thought it was pretty fucking hot watching my wife flex her stats like that.”
Mmm…the wife label seems like a bit of an offsides move. Technically, yes, we’re still married, and yes we’re both wearing our rings—he rarely takes his off—but we’re not…really married. We’re just dating and avoiding paperwork.
Right?
Rather than admit my blunder or allow the blush on my cheeks to get any brighter, I naturally tease, “You want a gino for using the word stats like that, don’t you?”