Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“He’s coming over?” Harley asks. He was reading over my shoulder and knows exactly who I just invited to our home. Postgame crash, my ass. My odds of getting him to bed just dropped to less than 1 percent, especially hopped up on caffeine and sugar.
“Yes, but not for a bit. You should have time to shower and get to bed first,” I tell him.
“Mooom!” he whines.
I can’t help it, I laugh. “I’m kidding. You can stay up to say thank you in person.” I switch into the mom inflection that I’ve perfected to add, “And then go to bed without argument.”
He’s quick to accept. “Deal.”
On the drive home, Harley rambles about the game, reliving each play in detail, and though I nod along and offer occasional commentary, mostly I’m reminding myself that I am not having sex tonight. Or maybe ever again.
But definitely not tonight.
Too bad my vajayjay doesn’t quite get the memo and is pulsing with a reminder that a little extra attention from a man who kisses like Dominic would be nice. Real nice.
Chapter 15
Dominic
I want to speed-demon rush through my postgame routine and get to Briar’s as soon as possible. But I can’t. On top of the typical media bullshit, I have work to do here. Especially since the fuse I lit inside a particularly troubled defenseman is starting to pop and fizzle in warning. We’re going to have dynamite-level destruction in three, two, one . . .
Right on time, Kipson roars at Anderson, “You son of a bitch! You know what you did!”
They are nearly nose to nose and on the cusp of throwing hands, but more shocking than that is Anderson’s unusually grim expression. For a good-time guy, he’s got an impressive “don’t fuck with me” face. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve done a lot of things.”
“Sofia.” Kipson giving his ex-wife’s name breath steals all the air in the locker room.
“Oh, that? Her?” Anderson scoffs. “You’re welcome, man. Better off without that anchor weighing you down, huh? Now you can put your focus where it should be, without the whining and pouting every time you travel for games.” He moves his hand like a mouth talking, right in his ear, his face the picture of annoyance, painting an image of what Kipson and Sofia’s relationship was like. Or at least what Anderson thinks it was like.
Seeming to think that’s explanation enough, Anderson slaps Kipson’s shoulder like they’re buddies again, but Kipson reflexively swats his arm away. “Better off?” he snaps. “She was the only thing keeping me out of hell and thanks to you, she’s gone.”
“Nuh-uh,” Anderson tuts, waving a hand. “Don’t put that on me. You’re the one who fucked up what you had. Though why you’d want that, I do not understand.” He shakes his head, confused. “Especially when this is the alternative. I’m just showing you what your life could be.” Anderson pats his own chest like he’s the ultimate example of happiness.
And maybe he thinks he is. But I can see through the shallowness in which he lives his life. I hope others on the team are starting to see through it too.
Kipson looks like Anderson just slapped him with his words. His mouth opens and closes like a fish ripped out of the water. I’d put odds at fifty-fifty on whether Kipson’s going to punch Anderson or collapse from the weight of the regret he’s been carrying.
“Your life is shit. Empty, hollow, meaningless shit,” he says quietly, intensely, instead. Kipson means every word of it, no holds barred. I happen to agree with him, but for the moment, I stay quiet, watching this play out, along with the rest of the team.
Anderson laughs. “But it sure is fun,” he brags, looking around for support. There are a few awkward chuckles, but nobody rushes to fully agree. Anderson doesn’t care, though. “Whatever. You know the drill. Hockey first, yourself second, women . . . well, they’re like item ten on the priority list. Right, Coach?”
I follow Anderson’s line of sight to see Coach Boothe standing in the doorway of his office. How much did he hear of Kipson and Anderson’s discussion? Judging by the stern set of his jaw? Enough.
Coach probably doesn’t think so, but I’m doing exactly what he brought me here to do—fix Kipson. I just might break a few other things in the process. What’s that saying? You’ve got to break a few eggs to make a cake? Well, I’m breaking egos to make a team.
Hopefully.
Briar’s neighborhood is filled with small homes. Some are more rundown than others, but all in all, it seems safe. As I count down the numbers to the address she sent, I already know which house is hers. It’s got to be the one with potted flowers on either side of the front door. There’s a level of care and warmth that makes the little yellow-and-white house stand out.