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)
Our childish chuckling however is suddenly cut short by me spotting an unpredicted face shoveling shrimp down his gullet. “Speaking of coming…any clue why the fuck Page of all people is here?”
“No, but I can openly say I don’t like the word coming and Page being in the same sentence when it leaves your fucking mouth,” Brendan bites, barely bothering to mumble his displeasure.
“Oooo, a jelly belly, and I ain’t talkin’ about the candy,” Letty needlessly stabs the situation.
Reprimanding her isn’t allowed due to he who is obviously irking my husband seeing me see him which encourages him to abandon the guzzling to come socialize.
“And he’s headed this way…”
“Can we head the opposite way?” Brendan not so quietly suggests prompting my best friend to giggle louder.
It only takes a few short strides for Page to appear where we’re gathered and during each one, the hold on my hip grows tighter.
Dominating.
Almost bruising and I fucking love it.
“GM,” Page sweetly greets to my surprise, smile softer than normal.
“Page,” I politely retort on a nod.
He shifts his attention to my best friend rather than my partner. “Letty.”
“Page.”
Missing the hurt in Brendan’s voice is practically impossible, “You’ve met Letty before?”
“Of course.” Page arrogantly grins at the same time he shoves both hands into his suit pockets. “You’re the one who’s new here, bud. Not me.”
Letty leaks a dramatic squeak that’s accompanied by a side eye my direction.
Okay, but what does she expect me to do?
They’re grown ass men.
Grown ass men who work together might I add.
They’ve gotta deal with their shit their way.
At least according to Margot.
Evidently letting them scrap it out in the middle of the ice on skates is a “liability” issue.
Ugh, fucking politics.
“And now that we’re on the subject of being here,” I segue what I hope is smoothly, “what are you doing here, Page?”
“Blanc voluntold me that I was the one delivering the season passes for auction.” His broad shoulders innocently bounce. “Guess he figured I could use the good publicity.”
My retort is rather thoughtless, “We all could.”
A familiar phrase instantly escapes my player, “Yes b’y.” Our exchanged grins are promptly followed by a wise suggestion, “What do you say we pose for a photo together at the auction table, GM? Show that we’re a united team when it comes to giving back and caring for the community?”
“That’s actually a really good idea, Page.” Brendan’s mouth twitches to object but isn’t allowed adequate time. “Mingle with Letty for a few, babe.” I cut my gaze to her. “And don’t get my husband shitfaced for your own sick, twisted amusement.”
“I would never-”
“McKay. Cancun.”
Her mouth immediately shifts to say something else. “Okay, but he wasn’t your husband.”
“Letty.”
“We could all just go,” Brendan rushes to counter.
“It’ll hit better if it’s just the GM and player.” My hand gently lifts to cup his cheek. “I’ll only be gone a few.”
He reluctantly nods his understanding.
Just as I prepare to slip out of his grasp, he drops his mouth to mine, smashing them together with such force it damn near knocks the wind out of me. Having his tongue dart inside proves to not be enough by the way it aggressively rolls and drags and refuses to leave until I acknowledge its power with a light whimper.
At that sound, Brendan abruptly part us and cockily coos, “Don’t take too long, baby.”
Prying my lids open to allow my eyes to meet his takes all the energy I can fathom. The sight of the man I’m crazy about needing an assist in what can only be described as a crucial moment has me shooting him a sweet wink of reassurance.
While I like the benefits of this pissing contest—getting my mouth banged—I don’t like seeing him so unsure about us.
Me.
We’ve never been plagued with those particular types of doubt—at least not out loud—and I don’t wanna start now.
Page and I wordlessly wander away from those I love yet the instant we’re out of earshot, he casually states, “You look really nice this evening, Hennington.”
I give my low plunging, high slitted, flowy gown a quick once over prior to responding, “I do, don’t I?”
He lightly chortles along our route to the back corner that’s near the stage. “Most women would’ve said thank you.”
“Yeah, but I’m not most women.”
“No, you are not,” he concurs in an interesting tone. “You’re better. Best kind.”
The accented Newfoundland phrase successfully pulls a grin to my lips.
He’s not always awful.
I remember when my dad signed him.
I remember the heart he used to have.
The hope.
The spirit of a champion before money, fame, and ego all scored goals on his open heart.
Part of me thinks that between the player dump and new coach, the old Page is returning, but the other part of me isn’t dumb enough to believe you can teach an old athlete new tricks.
Our arrival at the camera clad area is immediately recognized. Flashes go off and like professionals, the two of us squeeze together for photo after photo. We candidly laugh at jokes the other makes. Share small embraces to provide the illusion there has never been any tension between the two of us. We even pose very closely near the ticket sign up like we’re sharing a secret. Each picture will give off the party line that we are the hockey family we’ve been selling ourselves all summer to be.