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)
“Probably those in pee wee.”
More laughter freely fills the air mindlessly melting me further against my stick.
Ugh.
Why do I actually like that sound?
And more importantly…why does it feel like he only truly makes it for me?
The stick taps its latest mark with minimal effort. “Who taught you how to hunt?”
“My dad.” His eyes find me right as I bashfully confess, “Outings were hard for me when I was younger – and a teen – due to my medical condition. I was picked on. And stared at. And shunned. But hockey games…hockey games were one of the few places I could go, and nobody looked at me twice for having anything in my ears. Dad pretended we were going just to keep an eye on the sponsorship, but really? He knew it was one of the only places I felt comfortable. Like I weirdly fit in. Plus, it was one of the only things that was…just mine, aye? When you’re a twin – especially an identical one – you somehow end up sharing everything whether you like it or not. Both of my parents respectively made an effort to nurture our differences throughout our lives and for Dad, it was feeding me wings and watching hockey.”
“Same.”
This time he’s met by a skeptical stare. “Are you doing that ho’ hat trick where you pretend that we like the same sport, food, and family members to fucking wheel?”
“While I am quite familiar with that particular play – having blocked it numerous times,” he casually insists and moves onto the next ball I’m hoping he’ll miss so I can make a shot, “I’m just being honest.” Tanner pauses the game to fondly explain, “My dad would come to my games, watch me play, and then feed me wings somewhere near the facility while we talked shop. He’s always been a hotter the better type; however, I’m more of creativity is superior.”
Curiosity convinces my mouth to run away from me. “What’s the weirdest wing you’ve ever eaten?”
An overdramatic breath precedes an innocent shrug. “I’d have to have some sort of criteria in order to narrow down the prospects.”
“Fair.” I thoughtlessly inch towards him at the same time I interrogate, “Weirdest wing you had last season?”
“Buffalo pumpkin spice with maple syrup glaze and a cranberry mustard sauce for dipping.”
“Blasphemy.”
Tanner’s immediate chest shaking laughter continues to pull me closer.
Threatens to trap me.
Own me.
Now.
Forever.
Like he has illegal access to my playbook, he smoothly shifts his frame towards mine.
Steps closer.
Keeps his tone even in spite of the fact I can see his chest beginning to rise and fall faster.
So.
Much.
Faster.
“What’s your favorite place in town?” His free hand lands on the edge of the table. “I’m wondering if I’ve had it.”
“Wing Warriors in Greyson Village, which is like ten minutes from my house. It’s on the corner next to Harry’s Hardware.”
“They have that giant gargoyle display hanging over the bar!”
“That’s them!”
“God, I love that place.” The dramatic wilting movement has his thumb accidentally brushing against one of the balls. “And they have the most top cheddar draft choices including Runt’s, which is insanely more difficult to get on tap than it should be.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t do bars because of my ear, but what I do know is…” my head playfully tips towards the furniture, “you moved a piece on the table with your finger; therefore, you forfeit your turn.” Juvenilely waving my hand in the air precedes a taunting, “Moooveeeee.”
Small snickers accompany him during his step backwards. “That’s alright. Bullshit technicalities are truthfully the only way you were ever going to get a turn.”
There’s no stopping my bottom lip from dropping to the ground. “Fuck you. You’re not that good.”
“Perhaps not; however,” he arrogantly leans forwards, licks his lips, and cockily smirks, “my mitts are that silky.”
“Thank you,” sarcastically springs free alongside exaggerated movements to guarantee I hit him with the edge of my cue. “I was starting to worry my gag reflex was broken.”
Tanner waits until I’ve hunched over to tap the number one ball to smugly state, “Your playing position most certainly is.”
I don’t hesitate to toss him an incredulous look over my shoulder. “Excuse. You.”
“You aren’t going to make shite with that.” A tiny chin kick is given. “Just bank and bomb.”
“What do you fucking know?”
“A lot.” Glaring at his growing grin can’t be stopped. “Perhaps you’d like to rewatch the footage you took of me where I informed you that this is one way, I keep my hockey skills so sharp.”
“Nah,” I good-naturedly brush off, “listening to you ramble once is enough.”
“Talk.”
“Babble.”
He warmly laughs, shakes his head, and offers, “I can show you a better stance if you like.”
An audible dry heaving sound is followed by my own headshake. “Tell me that line doesn’t actually work on broadskies.”
“It does,” Tanner retorts without reluctance, “however, I genuinely wouldn’t mind showing you a better position simply for the sake of saving you some embarrassment.”