Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes at the glowering winger, who’s never stopped giving us shit since he learned a bunch of the guys—some dads, some not—from both the Foxes and the Sea Dogs play bocce ball and cornhole together in Cozy Valley whenever we can. “One, we don’t have a club. And two, you don’t want to be invited. To anything. That’s literally your thing—not going.”
Lake mimes slamming his hand on a buzzer. “Wrong. I want to be invited so I can turn it down.”
“Congratulations. You’ve truly perfected the art of avoiding socialization,” I say, sitting down in the chair in front of my stall and tugging on my shin guards.
“So Clem always says,” Lake grumbles, referencing his sister.
Miller chuckles as he grabs some gear from his stall. “You make Axman sound as antisocial as a cat.”
“Actually, did you know one of the least social animals is the snow leopard?” Riggs tells us. “They live and hunt alone. Tigers too. They only socialize to mate.” Riggs is intensely serious as he tapes up his stick. He’s never met a trivia game he didn’t want to win.
Lake wiggles an eyebrow. “Sounds about right. I’m like a tiger.”
“Sure,” I put in. “If you’re counting your hand as a mate.”
“And we’re not counting it, so you’re very, very wrong,” Lake says, lasering a stare my way. “And you should invite me to your club. I’m a cat dad.”
“It’s not a club,” Riggs points out, because…facts matter.
“So you can turn us down and spend the night at your ranch?” I ask Lake as I pull on my socks.
“It’s a nice ranch,” Lake adds. “And maybe I’ll say yes this time.”
“You won’t, Axman,” Miller replies. “You’ll be too busy feeding apples to Ranger or Nutmeg or whatever you’ve named them.”
“Aww, you know my horses’ names. That’s sweet.”
“Because I fucking care,” Miller says, stabbing his chest.
“And so do I,” Lake adds, then lifts his stick and pokes my thigh with it. “Shirt. Frosting. What’s the fucking story, Knight? Asking because I care.”
And we’re back to this. I decide to throw them a bone and hope they give up the scent. “Mabel was at the Webflix launch. Theo’s sister. She needed some help with a cake that fell, so I gave her a hand and—”
“Looks like you were a lot of help, man. Getting it on your fucking shirt.” Riggs cackles.
Miller snorts. “Can you help pick up my stick? Try not to trip on it as you grab it.”
“I need help tying my skates,” Riggs goads. “Don’t tie them around your wrist though.”
“Pretty sure you needed help at the event earlier today,” I say. “Next time, ask your teammates to open a path for you.”
“Fuck off,” Riggs replies.
“Now, this I want to hear,” Lake says.
As Riggs details his failed efforts to meet Sapphire, I turn around and put on the rest of my equipment, grateful the guys have moved on, but I’m hung up on something else.
The spark I felt once again with Mabel, along with the annoyingly persistent thought that maybe I should…ask Mabel out on a date.
It’s like a buzzing fly I can’t swat away. The idea feels a little crazy, No, a lot. But I can’t shake it, not during stretches, not during warm-ups, and not during our pre-game meeting. Not even when I hit the ice as the announcer booms: “And now, it’s time for your Golden State Foxes.”
The crowd cheers.
And…jeers.
But that’s when I finally put her out of my mind. We’ve got loyal fans, but also angry fans who aren’t afraid to let us know we need to do better than we did last year.
And they’re right—we do.
The last thing I need this season is a distraction. And definitely not one as big as trying to figure out how the hell to date my longtime friend’s frustratingly beautiful and endearingly chaotic little sister. Which means I also need to stop thinking about pushing her up against the door in a celebrity chef’s trailer.
Five minutes later, I’m racing down the ice. I flick the puck over to Lake when a Las Vegas Saber defender barrels toward me. Lake snags it, flies toward the net, then feeds it to one of our D-men, who ferries it around the net, and back to me.
I’ve got a clean shot on goal, and the Saber goalie’s been protecting the left side of the net more, so I shoot it to the right.
But he lunges for it, saving it with just enough time.
“Fuck me,” I mutter.
A perfect shot, and it’s still not enough.
The game goes on like that, with too many shots on goal and not enough to show for it.
At the end, the Sabers beat us in our barn, and I trudge off the ice, annoyed that we’re playing like we were at the end of last season.
In the locker room, I try to put it behind me. “It’s one game,” I say to the guys. “We’ll get the next one.”