Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“And you should wear fun underwear too, man. Tip of the day from yours truly,” Asher says.
“I have black socks. And black briefs,” Rowan contributes dryly.
“Black—like your soul,” Asher says with an eye roll.
I plant myself in the center of the room, stick two fingers in my mouth and let out a sharp, piercing whistle that cuts through the chaos.
“Boys,” I say firmly, drawing all eyes to me. “Let’s settle this, yeah?”
Christian sheds his suit jacket in his stall near the back, raising a brow. But he stays quiet as the scene unfolds. It’s subtle, but his presence is felt—the watchful eyes of the current solo captain. This is a test, I realize. He’s waiting to see how I handle this circus—this show of leadership. Usually, he’s the one rounding up the unruly children, but if I’m going to be co-captain, this is absolutely part of the job. And since our first game of the season is tonight, I want to set the tone.
I turn to Hugo first. “You’re right—don’t wear socks with sandals and a suit. That’s just painful to my eyes and, frankly, all eyes.”
Then to Tyler: “Socks are cool. Deal with it.”
Tyler blanches, then swallows roughly, nodding. “Fine,” he grumbles.
Wesley sits up straighter, grinning Tyler’s way. “See? I told you, Little Falcon. And Big Falcon agrees. Socks are the G.O.A.T.”
“And Asher,” I add, pointing a finger. “Corgi butt idea? Golden. Get that happening ASAP.”
Asher salutes me with his phone. “On it.”
I turn to Rowan. “Your black soul is exactly what we need on the ice.”
The defenseman gives a workman-like nod. “And it’s what you’ll get every single game.”
Finally, I return my focus to my brother since it’s time for some tough love. “Listen, man. The issue isn’t your socks. It’s your sandals,” I say, gesturing to the offending footwear he kicked off that I kind of can’t believe he wore with a suit on the first day. “They’re giving major number-one dad vibes. And I think that’s the real problem.”
The room erupts in laughter as Wesley slides across the bench to sit next to Tyler. “He’s right. Your sandals are the weak link, bro. Don’t worry; I can help. I don’t want you left behind in the sock-or-sandal revolution.”
“But no socks with sandals and suits,” Hugo cuts in. “Big Falcon said so.” He points to the DickNose board, then turns to me, his eyes like a puppy dog’s. “Can we make that a rule?”
Seizing the opportunity to wrap this debate up and move on, I grab the marker from the board. “Dress code rules. No socks with sandals while wearing a suit,” I write at the top, underlining it. “And…dress like a cool dad.”
“Ouch,” Tyler groans, clutching his chest as if he’s been stabbed. “Way to twist the knife.”
“We’re just looking out for you,” Hugo says, smirking. “One dad to another. Also, for the record, my wife dresses me, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”
“Cookie Melissa?” Wesley asks, his curiosity piqued. Pretty sure he has developed a cookie addiction courtesy of Hugo’s baker wife.
“Damn right. She’s got great taste in cookies and clothes,” Hugo replies, and an idea forms in my head.
I snap my fingers. “We should send Leighton over to shoot a video of that,” I suggest. “Cookie Melissa picking out the defenseman’s clothes. That’s gold for social.”
“Fashion tips from the players’ wives,” Wesley muses. “Hell yeah.”
“Right. I’ll pass it on to Everly first and see if she approves,” I say, pointing my thumb toward the locker room exit, and moving on from this talk of Leighton, since I can’t let on that I’ve thought about her nearly nonstop since the night at her place more than a week ago. “But right now, we need to get to the ice for a promo pic. Get your jerseys on and let’s go.”
They groan, but one by one, they pull on their jerseys and uniform shorts, lace up their skates and shuffle out of the room. I stay behind, making sure every last one of them gets their ass in gear, including Christian, who claps me on the shoulder as he passes.
“It’s no joke being co-captain potentially, huh?” he says, his voice low enough for only me to hear. “I won’t miss this stuff. I’ll delegate rounding up the boys to you.”
I glance at him, smirking. “So you’re putting me in charge of the sheep herding if I get the gig, Winters?”
“Fuck yes, Falcon. I’m keeping the good stuff for myself,” he says, then strides out, leaving me alone with the faint echoes of chaos still ringing in my ears.
I guess I’m the Border Collie. And…I don’t really mind.
But honestly, the real Border Collie is Scuppers. He’s the team’s mascot—part Border Collie, part Husky, and all rescue. When I step onto the ice a minute later, the black-and-white dog is already rolling on his back, legs flailing, begging for belly rubs.