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)
“They said you don’t do guys or players or whatever. It’s none of my business, but you’re right. You should stay away from them.” He gives me the warning as if I’m not wholly aware of that, his eyes dark and his jaw set in stone beneath a slight scruff.
“Away from you, you mean?” I correct.
“I’m not one of them,” he snaps, tossing a thumb behind him to point at the other players.
Stating the obvious, I remind him, “You’re wearing a team shirt.”
He glances down at himself, seeming surprised to find the baby-blue shirt with the team logo on the chest. “I keep forgetting I have the damn thing on. It feels weird, like it’s the wrong color, the wrong size, the wrong everything. It doesn’t belong on me and I don’t belong here.” He fidgets and squirms like the T-shirt is irritating his skin as he glances at the sea of baby-blue shirts in the bar, looking like he wants nothing more than to rip his shirt over his head and toss it, along with everyone else’s, into a big bonfire. Shoving his hands through his dark hair, he drops to the stool beside me and grumbles, “Fuck my life.”
“Welcome to the team,” I say dryly, and he glares at me coldly. At least I’m not the only one who thinks this franchise is a mess. Dominic obviously agrees wholeheartedly, and he doesn’t know the half of it. On the ice, off the ice, it’s a small miracle the Blizzard got to the Cup finals last season. “So what’d you label me?”
“Huh?”
“Fuck, marry, or kill?” I lift a finger for each option and then wiggle them at him.
And I swear to God, the man blushes. He ducks his head, but I can see the touch of redness rising on his cheeks above his scruff. “I’m embarrassed to say fuck. In my defense, I said marry the bartender because I think I’m going to need to take up drinking as a hobby to make it through this season here.”
“That a problem for you? Drinking, I mean?”
He recoils as though I slapped him. “No. I had one shot of whiskey when I got here, then sipped on two beers and two Jack-free Cokes so I could keep my wits about me tonight. That’s probably more than I’ve had in the last month, and that includes the going-away dinner my sister threw me.”
Unneeded details usually mean the guy is lying. I know that down to my soul. But there’s something about the way he says it, and again, I believe him . . . for now. Foolhearted? Probably. But what else is new?
“Who’d you say kill?”
He huffs a dry laugh, and taps his chest. “Me.”
“Aw, poor, pitiful Dominic. Playing professional hockey on a team that tons of guys would kill to be on. Your life is so tough, isn’t it?”
I know what I’m doing—teasing and taunting and poking and prodding, but mostly testing his reactions, his limits, his edges. The guys are right about me. I don’t fuck around and I don’t date (especially hockey players), but Dominic is surprisingly fun to talk to. Or maybe I’m just desperate for conversation with an actual adult, given most of my daily chats are either with my nine-year-old son, or a monkey. Being a zookeeper severely limits your conversation options sometimes.
Dominic flashes me a shit-eating grin. “I know I sound like a whiny baby. And I am thankful for the opportunity.” That’s the first lie he’s said. I can see it clear as day, like the polite, professional response caused a visceral reaction inside him because it’s patently untrue.
“What was so great about the Hawks?” I ask curiously. “They couldn’t have been that different. Hockey is hockey, after all.”
“The Cup,” he says reverently, his eyes closed and hands in front of him like he’s holding a ghost trophy. Shaking it off, he says, “It’s home, you know? I’ve been there so long, my whole NHL career in fact. And it’s a great group of guys. We give each other a hard time, but it’s all done in love. They’re the first to show up if you need something. They even came over to help me pack, though they did more shit-talking about the Blizzard than putting stuff in boxes.” He chuckles at the memory and I realize he talks about the Hawks like he’s still one of them. I think in his heart, he is.
“And I got to play with my best friend, Griffin.” He leans my way, revealing, “We’ve always called ourselves brothers, and now we actually are. He’s married to my little sister.” His wide smile shows true happiness, but I remember there being something in the news last season about the two of them going at it on the ice mid-game.
“The sister who threw you a going-away dinner?”