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)
Which I did do last night. For good luck. And also because we wanted to. We want to basically every day, so if our luck holds, the Moose should be the winners by the end of the night.
Final score: Moose: 4. Beavers: 3.
And with that, the Moose are the league champs! It’s not any one guy’s win. We did it together, as a team, each of us playing a part in the victory.
And the celebration.
The locker room is loud as fuck, high fives smacking and cheers yelled in every direction.
There’s only one face I want to see, though, and it doesn’t belong to a Moose.
The door opens and Joy comes in, followed by Ellis, who’s hauling his camera around like it weighs nothing, though I know it must be at least fifty pounds.
“Dicks up!” I call out.
“Hey, Joy!” a chorus of voices answers back.
“Thanks for the good luck!” Max adds, pelvic thrusting the air in front of him. Thankfully, he has compression pants on or I’d have to kill him, and it’d really suck for him to die on the night he won the playoffs.
She laughs. “Happy to do my part to support my favorite team. Going live in two minutes, so if you’ve got ’em, hide ’em, or they’ll be on the eleven o’clock report. Not sure that’ll do you any favors, Voughtman,” she quips, frowning at him in mock sadness.
She turns to me, and her whole demeanor changes from sports reporter going toe to toe with any athlete, to my girl. “Congratulations, Dalton. You were amazing out there,” she says quietly, just between us. “I loved every minute.”
“I’m gonna be amazing in you later too,” I vow, stepping right up close to her. “You’ll love that even more.”
What can I say? After a big win, I’m flying high on testosterone, excitement, and adrenaline, and the best way to celebrate is by roughly fucking Joy. Luckily, she likes to celebrate, too, because we’ve been doing a lot of it the last few weeks.
It’s been my best season ever. All thanks to her.
“Promise?” she purrs.
“Fuck yes.”
Ellis clears his throat. “Fifteen seconds.”
Joy steps away from me, her on-screen persona clicking into place in a blink. “Hello, Maple Creek, this is Joy Barlowe, coming to you live from the locker room of the new league champs . . . the Maple Creek Moose!”
Everyone cheers again and Joy steps into me, keeping a professional few inches between us as though she wasn’t just hanging on me like a puck bunny. “Dalton Days, how’re you feeling after tonight’s game?”
I smile at the camera. “Like the luckiest man alive,” I tell the lens, smiling happily. “This has been the best season of my life!”
Joy interviews Shepherd too. He does a great job of giving the other team credit for a great game and fighting hard throughout the playoffs, especially the Beavers’ defense.
After she’s done with the players, she talks to Coach Wilson, who’s clipped and stoic, but he smiles once. And for him, that’s basically jumping up and down on a couch, declaring his undying love for his players.
Ellis does his finger twirl thing, letting Joy know to wrap it up, and it’s done.
The season’s over, the report’s over. The only thing left to do is celebrate.
“I’ll see you at Chuck’s?” Joy asks. “Everyone’s already there, getting tables set up and saving us seats.”
I press a quick kiss to her lips, and in unison, the guys call out, “Ooh!”
“What’re you guys, a bunch of five-year-olds?” Joy quips, but she’s smiling and her cheeks are a pretty shade of pink.
When she’s gone, I hop in the shower and get dressed quickly. This is no after-game sweatpants night. Instead I pull on dark jeans, a black long-sleeve T-shirt, a Moose jersey over that, and my boots. I’m about to throw my bag on my shoulder when Coach pops his head out of his office. His face is red, his mouth pressed into a flat line. “Days? A word, please.”
I freeze, my excitement turning to ice in a heartbeat. What the hell does he want to talk to me about? I know the season had its ups and downs, but we won the playoffs, for fuck’s sake. He can’t be mad at that.
On the other hand, Coach Wilson could be mad at anything. He’s the type that’d win the Powerball lottery for $80 million and then be mad about the taxes and lawyer fees.
“Yeah, Coach?” I reply, sitting in the chair in front of his desk when he points at it.
“Good job.”
I wait for more. Maybe a “gotcha” laugh, but one doesn’t come. “Uh, thanks,” I stammer, feeling like there’s got to be a but coming any second.
“You’ve been a pillar of this team for a while now,” he starts, and a pit opens up in my gut.
Am I getting cut?