Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Fine, if that’s how they want to be, but I choose humor because, in my experience, if you can’t laugh at yourself, someone else will do it for you. “Get it? Flash? Because everyone saw my butt? Do you think they saw the tattoo that says ‘kiss here’ on my cheek?” I turn like I’m going to ask the couple at the table a few feet away, though I’m not really. They seem really into their conversation, like maybe it’s a first date. Or a last one.
“Just pee so we can go. I need my beauty sleep before the game,” my brother clips out in annoyance.
I can’t add a tally mark in my column for that one since the scores are me versus Griffin, but still, irritating my brother always warrants a point in our never-ending battle.
I hurry to the restroom, taking care of business and washing my hands, but I guess I wasn’t fast enough, because when I step back into the dining room, there are two new occupants at our table. A blonde sitting in my spot next to Dom and a redhead beside Griffin. The women are obviously on their A game, smiling and batting their lashes while twirling their hair. Might as well have “DTF” written on their foreheads, or maybe on their cleavage.
My first reaction is to march over there and run the women off. After all, Dominic is annoyingly protective of me, so turnabout is fair play. He’s due for some cockblocking.
But I don’t do that. The women aren’t doing anything wrong. They just only see the pretty exteriors of the pro athletes, and either don’t know or don’t care that they’re assholes beneath the hard muscles, chiseled jawlines covered in scruff, and cocky arrogance.
Or hell, maybe they do know and they’re into that? Some girls are. Fuck knows I’ve seen that with my brother over the years. I swear the more he acts like a jerk, the more girls flock to him. I’m sure that’s true for Griffin too. I’ve even had teammates and friends ask me to hook them up with my brother, his bestie, or both—though if they’re into that, I don’t know or want to know about it.
Luckily, I’m not one of those types of girls. I like guys who care and are soft inside, not filled with acidic barbs and thorny nettles. Which is too bad, because though I hate Griffin, I can admit he’s hotter than hot, but only on the outside. Inside, where it matters, he’s made of solid permafrost ice.
So I don’t intrude. If Dom wants to date Blondie, that’s on him. And if Griffin is into redheads, that’s fine too. It’s not my business or concern.
Instead, I wave to the workers behind the line, pointing back at my brother and Griffin with a knowing smirk that they return, and slip out the door.
Free from the overbearing guys and their barked orders about what I should and shouldn’t do, I walk the few blocks back to my apartment. I’ve already kicked off my boots and turned on the television when my phone dings.
You ditched us?
Dominic’s text doesn’t have a single emoji, but I can read the hurt anyway.
You looked busy. Didn’t want to interrupt, I reply.
Never too busy for you, PND. You home?
I can’t help but smile at the initials of my family nickname. As maddening as he is, Dom’s a good brother.
Yeah, settled in to binge watch Drag Race. See you tomorrow at the game?
You know it. G’night, sis.
GN, bro.
I don’t ask about Blondie. I especially don’t ask about the redhead, though I am curious how that ended up. Is Dominic texting me while Blondie waits for him? Is Red already riding Griffin’s dick since he didn’t have to do the brotherly check-in thing?
Probably so. He’s got a reputation for being a good-time guy. And I do mean good time. Girls talk, and though Griffin doesn’t fuck around with cheerleaders, he can’t help but be swarmed by puck bunnies who are all too excited to share on social media about their time with the oversize, tattooed, alphahole hockey player.
Not that I care. Or read the posts and watch the story-time videos. Nope, I’ve never spent a night scrolling the comments on one of those posts. Not a single night.
A knot twists in my gut, but not wanting to examine that too closely, I decide it must’ve been the spicy salsa in my protein bowl and turn up the television a bit more. Mrs. Rosenthal bangs on the wall almost immediately.
“It’s not even loud,” I yell back at her, trusting she’ll hear me through the wall. She probably can’t even hear the television but is simply banging because she heard me come home. I used to think she was lonely and wanted some sort of connection with her neighbors. One offer of a freshly baked batch of cookies cured me of that idea when she sneeringly informed me that she doesn’t eat from “strange and likely filthy kitchens.” Instead, I think she wishes she could live alone in the middle of nowhere, with nothing and no one to disturb her peace, but unfortunately, she lives smack in the middle of the city, with neighbors on every side.