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)
And you know what?
I do consider Hoss a teammate.
Plus, according to the Dalvegan team motto, I am supposed to.
Everyone that puts the crest on their vest matters.
That. Includes. Her.
It’s not my fault she just happens to have tits under hers instead of pecks.
Tits I pray to my lucky skates I one day get to actually see.
“Yes.” Killing the engine at the very edge of what I hope like hell is her driveway precedes me adding, “With our first pre-season game coming this weekend, I just want us all feeling our best.” I skeptically eyeball the front exterior of her Mediterranean style home. “Healthy scratches are better than hurt ones, aye?”
Except there is no scratching Hoss.
She has no replacement.
She’s never missed a game or chance to film, and she’s not about to start now.
Especially if I can prevent it.
“I suppose they are,” Father cautiously concludes. “Exactly how ill are they?” There’s a small ruffling sound that indicates he’s adjusting his grip on the device. “Should they perhaps see a physician? Perhaps the team’s physician?”
“Likely just a cold.” My attention continues to scan the surroundings for something – fuck, I’ll take anything – that reveals to me I’m not about to knock on a complete stranger’s door. “Honestly, I think some of your famous spicy chicken tortilla soup will clear everything right up.” An innocent grin thoughtlessly grows on my face. “It always works for me.”
“Soups from around the world is still one of the most beloved parts of my curriculum.”
“What is not to love? You combined history with eating making it nearly impossible for uni kids to deny signing up for your course.”
“Food is a very respectable language and teaching tool all its own.”
“I’m aware.”
“Understanding the West African roots of gumbo and the Kamakura period ties to miso soup and-”
“Father,” I gingerly interrupt, “I did not call for a history lesson but a recipe, remember?”
Light chortles leave us both. “My apologies.”
He cannot help it.
Father loves history.
Dad loves hockey.
And I am a walking amalgamation of both.
Once his amusement dies down, he investigates, “You are absolutely certain that you are equipped to make it on your own?”
“I believe so.”
Truthskies?
I fucking hope so.
I’ve never had to make the shite on my own, just reheat it.
See, whenever Father comes to town for a visit, he always makes a batch for me to eat and then freezes a batch for me to periodically eat over the next stretch of time.
He’s thoughtful.
I’m lazy.
It’s quite an incredible balance we have.
“You have all your basics, yes?”
“I bought everything you sent me.”
“Including emerald green serrano peppers?”
“And chipotle peppers in Adobo sauce.”
“Does your teammate have a crockpot to cook all of this in?”
“Bought one.”
“You bought one or brought one?”
Um…which one is less weird?
Which one sounds less weird?
The lull between us unfortunately stretches on for too long prompting Father to curiously investigate, “Which teammate did you say this was for again? I do not recall.”
I didn’t.
I have been specifically skating around certain verbiage to avoid having to be on the PK of explaining my very real yet simultaneously nonexistent relationship with the one woman I’d be willing to hang ‘em up for.
Especially if she insisted on it while she was naked.
I’d swear to never touch my 3Ps again to have endless access to such a view.
“I-I-I have to go,” I awkwardly stammer and slip the key fob into my pocket. “I’ll text you later when I have the opportunity.”
An arrogant, all-knowing chortle I’m quite familiar with hits my ears. “Very well, Tanner. I love you.”
“I love you too, Father.”
Ending the call is quickly followed by me gracelessly gathering all the materials I bought at the nearest Concession Stand, our local health food chain, and traipsing up what I easily confirm is her pavestone pathway due to the hockey themed address plaque near the garage.
At her front door, I take a long, slow, controlled breath – much like I do before a faceoff – ring the doorbell, and brace myself to deal with whatever comes next.
This was the right play…right?
Show up.
Show that I care.
Show that I’m more than just the sniper chasing man slut she’s branded me to be.
That’s three ginos right there.
A fucking hattie.
How often do chances like this come along?
The dark wood front door suddenly opens; however, it doesn’t reveal to me Hoss.
Or a housekeeper.
Or even a fucking human.
No.
I’m greeted by a fucking wild beast charging straight at me, oversized paws popping me directly in my chest. The hard impact stumbles me backwards onto my ass while the bags I was holding launch out of my possession only to land Gretzky knows where.
There isn’t time to track their whereabouts or question what’s broken or salvageable.
Fuck, there’s barely even a second to catch a breath before the monster is pinning me beneath the full weight of its body and snarling so close its spit trickles onto my mouth.