Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 52355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
He grins. “Not nearly as much as you’d think. I found someone he campaigned against who’s eager to make friends with his enemies.”
I hug him and he stiffens, a fatherly type who isn’t used to being hugged at work.
“I’m grateful to you,” I say, pulling away.
“Glad I could get it done. I had to hire a firm to review the arena contracts because I didn’t have time with this in my lap. It’ll be costly.”
“That’s okay. Whatever you need. And I want you to take at least a week off. We’ll hire an assistant for you if you need it. I want you to have better work-life balance.”
He lowers his brows, looking suspicious. Probably because old Mila judged anyone in the organization who didn’t work extra hours. But new Mila knows no amount of money can make up for time spent missing out on life.
“I’m serious,” I say. “Go home and don’t let me catch you at the office tomorrow.”
He nods and leaves immediately, probably wondering if I’m going to change my mind.
It’s going to take time for the people around me to truly believe it, but it’s true. A leopard can change its spots. My pen-throwing meltdown days are over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Colby
“On the road again,” Beau says as we sit down in seats on opposite sides of the aisle on the team plane.
The familiar lemon scent of the disinfectant that’s used to wipe down surfaces inside the plane makes me sigh deeply as I get out my headphones. That smell means we’re just starting a road trip. I’ll spend a lot of time trying to sleep on this plane as we fly to the next city after games.
Usually, I like traveling. It’s harder for the guys with wives and kids, but for the bachelors, several big cities in the span of a week or so simply means more opportunities to pick up women.
Some of my teammates will be swiping right and left on Tinder profiles before the plane finishes taxiing in Boston. That used to be me, trying to lock in a postgame hookup as early as possible.
Everything’s different now. All I want to do is stay in Denver so I can figure things out with Mila. She was already asleep when I got home last night and had already left for work when I got up this morning. I’d hoped for time to talk, but instead I’m leaving for Boston with more questions than answers.
I thought I knew who I was and what I wanted. Our relationship has forced me to face some hard truths, though. I tend to assume the worst will happen. Growing up the way I did affected my mindset about relationships more than I ever realized. And the most difficult truth of all—I haven’t avoided committed relationships all these years because I want to sow my wild oats, but because I’m afraid.
Dom’s walking down the aisle in search of a seat. He stops and rips ass, grinning.
“I had chili yesterday, boys. Might be a long flight.”
Groans sound throughout the plane and someone throws a foam ball at his head. He makes eye contact with me, silently asking if he can sit next to me, and I shake my head. Dom turns to Beau and gets the same response.
“Fuck you guys,” he mutters.
No one’s willing to sit by him, and he ends up in the last row of the plane, alone. Good. I’m not in the mood for his shit today.
I put my headphones in, starting a podcast my former teammate Harry just started doing. It’s about life after pro sports, and he interviews other retired athletes.
Though it’s interesting, my mind still wanders to Mila. I should have woken her up when I got home last night and told her all the things I’ve been thinking since meeting her grandfather yesterday. I could text her, but it feels too impersonal for what I need to tell her—that there’s nothing fake about the way I feel about her.
“What are you gonna do, Harrison? Call your sugar mama wife and tell on me?”
Austin McGill sneers, pulling away from the ref trying to hold him back from me as we both skate toward our penalty boxes. He’s pushing my buttons tonight, and I’m letting him.
We’re winning the game 4–2, and Nashville’s fans are lit up about it. The fans near my penalty box are calling me every name in the book. I’m not just a pussy, I’m a fucking pussy or a motherfucking pussy. A kid who can’t be more than eight years old cups his hands around his mouth and yells “pussy bitch” at me as I shake my head. His parents must be proud.
As soon as I get out of the box, the second period ends. As we skate off the ice, I look up into the VIP boxes, scanning them for a woman with smooth dark hair and red lips.