Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Sawyer pulls a face, holds his arms out wide, gesturing to the dog fiesta. “Would I do anything less?”
“Just making sure.”
I hand him Wanda, and he pets her chin. “We always have a good time, don’t we, girl?”
She tips her head back, showing off her underbite, shamelessly indulging in his adoration.
I drum my hands on the counter, pleased with, well, everything tonight. Wanda’s happy, I’ve got a fail-safe fake-dating plan, and my kiddo will be in the house this evening, along with my parents.
I strut into the locker room, ready to take no prisoners when we play. “Boys, it’s going to be a good fucking night,” I announce.
Miles snaps his gaze to me. “Who are you and what happened to our mean-as-fuck D-man?”
I scoff as I unknot my tie. “Don’t worry. I’ll be a goddamn murder hornet on the ice.”
Tyler stretches an arm across his stall, offering me a fist for knocking. “We always fucking are.”
I knock back. “Every single game.”
Miles hums doubtfully as he grabs shoulder pads from his stall. “Yeah, but you never come in like you’re whistling a happy tune, Bishop.”
I stretch my neck from side to side. “Can’t a man just be in a good mood?”
Miles tugs on the pads. “Sure. Any of these other clowns. But not you, Mister Grump.”
Across the locker room, Ford—he’s our veteran forward—gives a sharp-eyed stare as he tapes his stick. “Put it on the DickNose board, boys. Rowan’s been bitten by the Christmas spirit.”
I scoff. “Please. I’m just ready to destroy my hometown team tonight. That’s all.”
But one glance at the DickNose board, and I heave a sigh. There’s a sixth item added to the Five Things the Future Mrs. Bishop Needs to Know About Rowan.
It reads: He collects ugly sweaters for Christmas parties. Just ask him about the first one his teammates got him.
With more dread than when I click on the news lately, I turn around to face them, pasting on a big-ass grin. Never let them see you sweat and all. “Aww, you guys are so obsessed with me you’re getting me gifts. So cute. So fucking cute.”
Ford snorts. “Oh, it’s cute all right. Your gift.”
Tyler dips his face, clearly trying but failing to hide a smile. “Would we call it cute?”
“It’s so disgustingly cute he’s going to want to wear it ASAP,” Miles puts in.
I stay strong, beckoning with my fingers. “Bring me the gift, boys,” I say, since I learned a long time ago that it’s best to go along with pranks, not to fight them.
Miles stretches an arm into his stall, grabs a messily wrapped package from the top shelf, and frisbees it my way.
I catch it one-handed, of course. If I didn’t, I’d have to retire in disgrace immediately. “It’s like a bunch of drunk monkeys wrapped this,” I say, flicking a finger at the misplaced tape, the curling corners of the paper and…what the hell? “Seriously?”
Tyler snorts, then barks out a laugh. “You don’t like it?”
Shaking my head, I get a good look at the wrapping paper and the words Jingle Balls scrawled on it. A cartoonish print of crudely drawn pairs of balls cascades across the paper, complete with Santa hats perched atop each hairy ball. “With friends like you…”
“Open it,” Miles goads, smirking.
“You mean the wrapping paper isn’t the gift?” I deadpan.
“Our generosity is boundless,” Ford says. He’s stopped taping his stick. In fact, all the guys have stopped getting ready. They’re staring at me.
The dread mounts. I can’t even imagine what’s on the sweater. But I man up and rip open the sloppy wrapping job. I pull out the ugly sweater, holding it up. Santa’s kneeling in front of a tree, setting down a present, while his pants ride low. His big white ass is on full display for his reindeer, along with the little black thong he wears.
There’s something else under the sweater too. I’m almost afraid to look. But I brave the sloppy Jingle Balls, and gingerly reach for…yup. A thong.
A matching black thong.
I raise my face, and the assholes I call teammates can’t contain themselves. They erupt in doubled-over laughter. When it subsides a minute later, Miles chokes out, “You can wear it…to a…date.”
My jaw falls open. “You assholes bought the damn matchmaking package for me!”
But logic has no home here.
“And you’re welcome,” Tyler puts in with a smart-aleck nod.
“Be sure to let the future Mrs. Bishop know it’s the first of many ugly Christmas sweaters,” Miles adds, in between catching his breath.
I toss the sweater and the matching underwear into my cubby. There will be no future Mrs. Bishop, but I keep that to myself.
Once I’m in uniform, I tap the pic of Mia I keep in my stall. It’s a shot of her leaping in front of a graffiti wall in the Mission District, and it’s my good luck charm. Then I tap the spot above my right pec, also for good luck—that’s where my favorite tattoo is. With those twin superstitions done, I stretch and warm up. Then I head to the tunnel with Tyler, skates and helmets on, sticks in hand.