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)
“Anything they can do?”
“Surgery.”
My mouth lowers to speak only nothing comes out.
Perhaps because I don’t know what to say?
Or what I should say?
Should not say?
Verbally sparring with Arden is one thing, getting her to believe anything remotely real from me is next league up shit.
And currently?
I just left the beer leagues.
“Hand it over,” I command with an open palm. “I’ll keep it on the bar while the food cooks.” Offering her a crooked grin mindlessly occurs. “Play a little D in case Bear mistakes it for a snack.”
“He’s never done that before.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t happen.” An almost shy snicker precedes more hesitation, an action that pushes me to add, “Let me lace up, Arden.” I instinctively lean over the couch’s edge and plead, “Just this once.”
Chapter 8
Arden
First official home game in the books, which means it’s now time for the first official post-game dog walk.
Bear’s least favorite.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I fuss while reaching for his harness that’s dangling on the key hook beside the front door. “Off-season is over.”
Bear turns his face up towards the ceiling on an unhappy woof.
ForFuhrssake, I get it.
He wants to be in bed.
Legs over my legs.
Chewing on his bedtime bone listening to me chirp the announcers on STN or quoting A Knight’s Tale to sleep.
I want that too!
But if I don’t walk him now to burn a little excess energy, he’ll invite himself into the backyard to run chariot race circles at two in the morning and nobody likes that.
It sounds a lot like a fucking Jumaji cut scene.
And that’s with only one good ear.
Can’t imagine what it would be like with two.
“It’s not my fault.” Slipping the object over his neck occurs next. “I had to conduct a post-game interview with Tanner.” A cringe escapes as I lower myself to a squatting position. “Frosky.” Another wince slips loose during my clicking them into place. “Snowman.”
Bear shoots me a shifty side eye that results in me flashing him my middle finger.
I don’t need my dog giving me lip.
It was bad enough getting it from Khurana when he caught my eyes hungrily wandering across Tanner – er – Frosky – shit – Snowman’s – nailed it – sweaty shirtless frame.
I don’t know what he expected from me!
This beautifully tanned, blond haired, blue eyed, muscular Hercules knock off with script that literally translates to “ice warrior” chiseled into his toned flesh was just leaned back, legs slightly spread, spewing all sorts of glory about how incredible his teammates are versus himself, and I couldn’t look away.
It was like someone turned on porn.
Like good porn.
Like well written, well directed, high production value, gonna win The Cup of porn awards level of porn.
One minute I was contemplating about what to eat when I got home and the next, I wanted to be what was eaten when he got home.
Unfortunately for me, I must’ve let a whimper or moan or an airy curse word slip because the next thing I knew Khurana was disapprovingly clearing his throat and Snowman was smirking.
Ugh.
The jolly happy soul having bastard.
“We’ll make it a quickie,” I promise in tandem with reaching for his leash.
Bear woofs again in refusal.
“I’ll play your favorite Shakira songs.”
He woofs even faster than before.
“Get bent,” leaps loose alongside the attaching of his leash. “This is what’s happening. It’s non-negotiable.”
Immediately afterward, I open the door, unexpectedly revealing the very person I was blaming for my tardiness, looking downward at my dog. “Good to know she talks to you like that as well.” Rather than wait for a reaction from me, Bear instantly takes an aggressive stance and begins growling. “Seriously, Yogi?” He lets his head playfully fall to one side. “You saw me three times last week, and now three times this one.”
Okay.
I don’t love hearing how often I’ve let him come over.
Or how often I’ve let him come into my house where he conducts ancient sorcery better known as cooking.
Or how often I’ve let him onto my couch where we may fall asleep to old movies while Bear defensively sleeps between us.
It’s much easier to deny that we’re even broskies when there isn’t an actual timeline that can be used as evidence, so fuck him for revealing it.
And double fuck him for being so much fun to be around that we have one.
“Shouldn’t we be on better terms by now?” Tanner – um – Frosky – forfuckssake – Snowman teasingly scolds. “At least in the greetings department?” When Bear’s protective snarling doesn’t decrease, he dramatically sighs. “Fine. Queso.”
Confusion quickly cakes my complexion.
“Um…guacamole.”
The expression deepens.
“Salsa?”
Light laughter precedes my head shaking. “Stop ordering fajita toppings from my dog and tell me why you’re on my doorstep.”
“I was trying to remember his codewords.”
“Commands.” Adjusting Bear’s leash in my grip precedes delivering a sharp tug that indicates for him to heel as well as cease growling, which he instantly does. “And he doesn’t listen to them from just anybody. He’d be a shit guard dog if that were the case.”