Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Maybe you’re grumpy because you need to get your dick sucked,” Randall suggests.
Honestly, he’s not wrong, and in the past, I would’ve had a meaningless hookup with someone, gotten my rocks off, and fallen into blissed-out sleep. But I’ve been jacking off nearly daily at this point and wouldn’t have the energy to give to someone else.
You’d have energy for Joy.
I cough, choked up by the betrayal of my own thoughts. “Naw, I’m good.”
“You sure?” Shepherd challenges, but with a sly grin, he adds, “I think the cheerleaders are on the eighth floor. I’m sure Mollie wouldn’t kick you out of her bed. Unless you think your dry spell is what’s making you a beast on the ice. In that case, no spilling.”
The Moosettes—yes, that’s actually what they call them—are our team cheerleaders, and any fraternization is strictly forbidden. Realistically, that’s a cover-your-ass rule the league has, but I don’t know any team that abides by it. Players and cheerleaders are both professional athletes, and as such, we understand the travel schedules, practice requirements, and seasonal nature of our proximity, so, as long as everyone’s on the same page, nobody cares if we scratch each other’s itches. And Mollie and I have done our fair share of scratching over the years I’ve been a Moose and she’s been a Moosette.
She’s definitely a been-there-done-that situation for me, though. The last time we hooked up, she wanted to talk after, which is fine. In theory. Despite my reputation—as a cold asshole, not a ladies’ man—I don’t have a problem with talking with people, male or female. But something set off my spidey-senses, and I haven’t fucked her since. She was supposed to be a stress reliever, not a stress creator, and that’s what she was becoming. There were a couple of texts during the offseason, but I figured when I sent her a flat “No” for the first and ignored the others, she’d gotten the message.
“Dry spell? Shiiit, Days was sending flowers to someone earlier. He’s holding out on us on who the lucky—or unlucky—lady is,” Max reveals, looking proud as a peacock for catching me in a lie of omission.
“Ooh! Tell us!” Shep taunts, backhanding my arm again.
“Fuck off,” I growl at him, kicking out beneath the water and connecting with his ankle.
Then, like I’m not sitting right here hearing every word, my three buddies discuss who this mystery lady might be and possible reasons I might not want to share who I was sending flowers to.
“Was it roses? Red ones mean I want to fuck you hard and rough. Pink ones mean I want to fuck you nice and slow. White, I fucked someone else and I’m sorry.” Randall’s opinion on the meaning of rose colors is as ridiculous as he is. Unless he’s right, but I wouldn’t know because I’ve never sent flowers to anyone.
Except I did. Today. To Joy.
But not roses because she specifically said no roses, which makes me wonder if maybe Randall’s on to something and Joy knows the rose rules too.
I sent her a bouquet of blazing stars, something a little wild, a bit unusual, and very pretty according to the flower shop’s website. Just like Joy. I had them add a card that simply said thanks on it, figuring she could take that however she wanted because I sure don’t know what to say after last night.
Sorry.
Let’s do it again.
Please don’t tell your brother because I really like living on this side of the dirt.
Not that I think if Shep and I ever came to blows I couldn’t handle myself. But I know Shep, and this would be one area he’d be willing to go all-in on—fighting to the death, fighting dirty, or not even fighting, but straight-up Pulp Fiction gunning someone down.
I can’t explain any of that to the guys, so instead, I muster up some fake indignation and shove Max. Hard. “Fuck you, man. The flowers were for my mom. Not some chick.”
That last part is true at least. The flowers weren’t for “some chick.” But they also weren’t for my mom, and lying to them, especially Shep, feels shitty. I don’t have a choice, though, because the alternative to telling the truth is definitely worse.
And at this point, the team needs me to keep doing what I’m doing with Joy. It’s my ritual, and she’s my good luck charm, so I’d hate to screw everything up by telling them what’s brought on my newfound confidence and the team’s winning streak.
I just have no fucking clue what to do for the next roughly fifty games.
“That’s sweet. Tracy doing okay?” Shep asks.
Shepherd’s parents, Jim and Lorie, take care of us all like their own, but my mom is pretty amazing in her own right. She lives far enough away that she can’t be at every game, but she supports what I’m doing, and fuck knows she spent my entire youth, high school, and college years on a hard metal bench watching me protect whatever goal I was in front of that game.