Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“You know I’m quoting Becks! Canada’s his hometown!”
“Country.”
“He knows all the best spots for both. No cap.”
Part of me wants to point out to the ken doll I’m currently staring at that Canada is a very huge country – like his own of Doctenn – as well as the fact that Jonathan “Becks” Beckerman is actually from somewhere like two thousand miles away, but the other part? The part that simply wants to get a shower and a glimpse of the snipe he gets to call all his? That part says it’s best to not waste my breath correcting his mistakes out of the rink.
In it is enough.
“We fly out early, aye?” Adjusting the strap on my shoulder precedes a hard scowl. “Keep that shit in mind. If I have to hunt anyone’s ass down to be on that plane, you and them are gonna be doing speed drills until you’re pullin’ off your own buckets to puke in.”
“You’re such a fucking beauty, Eeyore.” The corner of his lips kick upward. “We should start calling you Igor Allan Poe, aye?”
“Your chirp game always confuses and frightens me.”
“Then I am doing my job.”
The tilting of my head pulls an open mouth laugh out of him to which I simply shake off.
Nope.
Best not to engage with a hungry, horny, hopped up on a dub Snowman.
Nothing good ever comes of it.
“Take The Rookie with you.” I tap my card to grant myself entry to my room. “For the assist.”
“You want me to corrupt him?”
“No, I know he’ll make sure your asses are all back at a reasonable hour. The only thing the dude is more loyal to than what’s best for this team is his fuckin’ Slayer.”
“Bro, have you fucking seen her?!” He touches his key to his own reader. “She’s suchhhhhh a fuckin’ snipe.” He pushes on the handle at the same time he grunts, “Like how the fuck did he land that? Kid can’t flirt worth shit.”
“Why don’t you ask him about it over brewskies?” This time it’s me whose lips curl upward. “Maybe he can teach your ass a thing or two.”
His eyes instantly narrow to a glare that receives a small chuckle and cocky wink.
Entering my room is followed by dropping my gear, making a call to room service, and heading straight for the shower. While I don’t mind rinsing off after the postgame workout, I really don’t fucking care for a long sesh in someone else’s barn.
Like usual, I enjoy an extended soak under the hot water to help soothe the muscles as well as a deep conditioner scrub of my scalp with whatever my current stylist suggests.
Right now, she’s big into recommending eucalyptus products primarily because of my fear of balding too fucking soon.
The boys all act like they don’t give a fuck about their hair but when playoffs hit and the lettuce game is at its finest, every single one wants to know “the secret” to making the shit look good.
That’s all I’m saying.
Not long after my shower, there’s a knock at my door from room service.
I put on a pair of boxers and retrieve the meal from the overly excited female hotel staff member who is hoping for an invite inside rather than a hefty tip. Giving her the latter is accompanied by grabbing my cell to indulge in my latest on the road tradition of eating dinner with Joeski via video chat while she gives me the highlights from home.
One password swipe into my device reveals three texts I can wait to open and one that I can’t.
Clicking the unexpected message is quickly done along with reading its contents.
Fernandez: My source came through. I’m meeting with a couple members of the club tomorrow night for a drink. Will keep you posted.
Despite my better judgement, I let excitement flood my expression.
Fuck yeah!
Do I know better than to celly in the first period of shit?
Da.
But in this case, I can’t fucking help it.
If I can pull this shit off for Joeski, it’ll be like winning the fucking Cup in the relationship finals.
And I know doing nice shit for one another isn’t a competition…but…she’s got so many fucking points on the board already that I can’t help feeling the presh to catch up.
Between what she’s does as a Slayer – pre actually becoming one, which I’m not sure she actually calls herself yet since it’s only been a couple days – and what she does specifically for me – packing the recommended conditioner as well as a mini bottle of lube for better self-given mattress wristers – she keeps lighting the lamp.
Me?
I merely struggle to even think up nice shit I could possibly do that won’t make her feel like she’s starring in a hockey themed Pretty Woman remake.
However, had my non-immediate family not rudely interrogated her at Thanksgiving about her lack of having her own, the play to possibly fix that would’ve never been set in motion.