Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Air struggles to find its way into my lungs, forcing me to drop my stare downward in an attempt to figure out how to make that happen.
It isn’t exactly metalsmith work or gladiator training.
You let oxygen in.
You let carbon dioxide out.
It’s pretty cut and dry, so why the fuck can’t I do it right now?!
“Arden?” the breath stealer gingerly calls, commanding my gaze upward. “You alright?”
I nod.
Which is a lie.
A complete and total playoff on the line so the league better not catch you doing shit lie.
I’m not good.
I’m rarely good around him when we’re alone.
When he’s this…open.
And honest.
And real.
When he’s everything except what the media paints him to be.
“Is my answer acceptable?” He begins to shuck off his blue jacket, revealing how tight his dress shirt is on his chest. “May we play now?”
The faintest whimper treacherously escapes leaving me no choice but to hastily scramble words after it. “Yeah.” Clearing away the possibility for an encore noise is instantly done. “Sure.” I guide my now unsteady hand over to end the recording. “Whatever.”
Tanner inquisitively tilts his head ever so slightly to the side at the same time he asks, “And you’re certain you’re alright?”
“Right as rainskies.”
Aside from the fact my head is spinning and whirling and twirling and I know it’s not from the vertigo brought on by my condition.
Relocating my accessories to the nearby bar counter, ditching my heels, and retrieving my own cue are all executed in much appreciated silence.
Having to endure his smooth voice and sexy accent and clean scent cologne so steadily has my mind fucking malfunctioning.
We’re talking flash him my tits just to momentarily shut him up long enough for me to factory reset my brain.
Because it logically knows better than to buy into his well-scripted bullshit.
And his Ken doll sparkling eyes.
And his always up to the best trouble grin.
There is no man on this planet I openly hate more than Tanner Frosky.
And no man I hate myself for not really hating as much as I probably should.
“Stripes,” Tanner declares while positioning himself to take the breaking shot. “I like that it reminds me of strips.”
“You really are a simple-minded fuck.”
Loud laughs barely precede the sound of the balls banging into each other. “There are worse things.”
“And there are better things.”
“Is there anything better than hockey to you?”
“Sports wise?”
He nods while making his way around the table towards me for a better angle.
“No.”
“What’s second?”
“Doesn’t exist.”
Hums of approval are attached to him hunching over to present me with an incredibly beautiful profile shot.
One that allows me to see the light hair littered along his jaw.
The faint scar on his neck.
The very top edge of his glacies bellator tattoo that’s inked right below his right collarbone.
“Alright then,” he begins after following through with his shot, “what is your favorite non-hockey activity?”
I lazily lean with the stick. “Wing hunting.”
Rather than immediately move to hit the ten ball, Tanner tosses me a pleasantly surprised expression. “No shit.”
“Love a good hot wing.”
“You watch Hot Ones?”
“I like to eat hot ones. Watching other people do it just makes me hangry.”
“Same!” Snickers leave us both, yet it’s him who continues the conversation. “Just how far have you travelled for a good wing?”
There’s no stopping my face from cringing. “Dos Santos.”
“Which is where?”
“A very small border town where my dad’s cousin serves the most delicious Mexi-Texi chili-lime wings – out of a fucking food truck by the way – that you will ever find in your life.”
“And what exactly is on a Mexi-Texi wing?”
“Chili-lime wing sauce – made hotter by mixing in a little green pepper hot sauce – with a bit of cilantro and cotija cheese sprinkled on top.”
“Fuuuuccck,” Tanner moans while finally resuming an upright stance, “that sounds delectable.”
I use every fiber of my being to ignore the effect that sound has on my lady parts and confess, “I literally ate them until I puked. Hydrated. And resumed eating them.”
An impressed expression appears on his face rather than horror during his relocation. “Such a fucking beauty.”
The hockey style compliment prompts me to playfully curtesy, an action that gets him laughing again as he sets up his next shot.
“What about you?”
Tanner keeps his attention plastered on the ball he needs to hit.
“How far are you willing to go for a good wing?”
“However far is necessary,” is accompanied by the tip of his cue connecting to its target. Once the ball has sunk into the appropriate pocket, he meets my gaze again. “I will say that is one of the only benefits to constantly being on the road.”
“You get to be a wing slut?”
Moving to his next ball occurs in tandem with his chuckling. “I suppose I left myself open for that shot.”
“And you know what Gretzky said about taking shots.”
“What puckhead doesn’t,” mutters Tanner prior to positioning himself over the table.