Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“As a matter of fact, yes. You. You just did.”
“Well, you are.”
She’s smiling. “I know.”
As the car swings onto the Strip, my phone buzzes, and I check it. It’s a text from my mom.
Guess where I found your kitten?
I groan, bracing myself for Athena’s antics.
Top of the fridge? Bottom of the laundry basket? Inside the dryer?
I hope it’s not the latter. But I bet it is. She’s the sneakiest.
Your closet. Top shelf. Sleeping on a tie.
There’s a pic attached of the tiny furball curled up on some sapphire blue neckwear. Fuck, that’s cute.
Everly shoots me a curious look, like she wants to know what’s on my phone. “All good?”
But if I let on that I foster kittens, I’ll never hear the end of it from her. “Yep,” I say, shutting the text.
She returns to her phone, typing away. Smiling too. That looks like how a woman smiles when she sets up a date. A fire rages in my chest, out of control in seconds.
“Got a date?” I ask. It comes out strangled.
“Maybe,” she says, a little flintily.
The flames burn higher. Brighter. Hotter. In seconds, there’s a wildfire in me, eating the forest alive. “Is he your type?”
“I guess I’ll find out. We’re going to grab lunch on Sunday,” she says.
“Lunch,” I scoff. “That’s weak.”
“Why is lunch weak?”
“Because it’s lunch. Who takes a woman out for lunch?”
“A nice guy,” she says.
I grind my teeth, then stare out the window, my jaw ticking the rest of the way back as I think about her lunch this weekend.
As I’m heading to the Vegas arena a couple hours later, a text from her lands on my phone. It’s a link to my social feed.
She dropped some pics from the circus. The shot of me watching, a pic of the sword swallowing, then the final snap of the ringmaster and me.
The caption reads: If hockey doesn’t work out, I might run off to join the circus.
I shake my head. She’s brilliant. So fucking brilliant. And I bet this fuckface she’s having lunch with won’t appreciate her clever ways.
She needs a guy who does. A guy who does more than take her to lunch. A friend takes you to lunch. A date doesn’t take you to lunch on a Sunday.
Wait. This Sunday. I know something that’s happening this Sunday right around noon. I send her a text.
Max: Had a great idea for my next favorite thing. There’s a fun bike ride in the city this weekend. Starts at noon on Sunday. You can get another pic.
Who’s the evil genius now?
14
ALL THE NAKED GLORY
Everly
On a red mountain bike, a man sits tall and proud, his furry chest on full display, a pair of bright green bike shorts painted on his thighs as he pedals in the city. He rides next to a woman on an electric bike, who’s dressed in only a pink bikini, which is painted on her breasts and pelvis.
A pack of men with Superman logos on their chests and tight red thongs painted on their penises cycle along Hayes Street in the Naked Painted Bike Ride.
I can’t believe this is where Max took me today, but I’m begrudgingly admitting to myself that he’s good. He’s damn good at this game. But I will never let on to him. “So this is one of your favorite things?”
“Big time,” he says, resting his muscular arms on the parade barricade on the sidewalk as we join the other onlookers here on Sunday afternoon, now that we’re back in town. After a quick stretch of away games—the Sea Dogs won in Vegas and in Denver—we’re back home in time for what’s become a San Francisco tradition each fall. “Come here every year. It’s a great cause, don’t you think?”
“Sure is,” I say, meaning it. This bike ride—where cyclists wear nothing under their painted on costumes—raises money for more bike lanes in the city. It’s one of the city’s green initiatives funded in part by the city’s best-known billionaire, the football team owner Wilder Blaine, who’s also a noted green philanthropist. “I didn’t realize you were such a supporter though.”
“Definitely. I donate to it every year, and I walk the walk,” Max says, laying an easy target for me.
I fire away. “Why aren’t you out there riding then?”
If he’s going to sabotage my date to take me to a naked bike outing for our makeover project, I might as well wind him up.
But he’s not a ferocious competitor for nothing. He scratches his jaw carelessly. “My body painter was busy this year. Such a shame. I was going to go as a Sea Dog. That would have been great for the team’s image, right? Me, naked, with only a painted dog tail covering my dick?”
This man. I’m thinking of his cock now, and that is not fair. He shifts his gaze to me, his eyes sparkling with trouble. So I give it right back to him. “Absolutely. A naked hockey star raising funds as he flies free with his wiener,” I say.