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)
Snickers escape as Arden drops her hands onto her teal, yoga pants covered hips. “Remind me why I’m here again?”
“My agent-”
“The one you share with Peck?”
“That Peck shares with me.” I playfully scowl in between statements. “Booked me this promo deal with the league endorsing insurance coverage or some shite.”
“That’s why you’re here.”
“And I may have suggested to Hot Rocket that showcasing some exclusive behind the scenes footage would be a brilliant idea for the docuseries.”
“Of course you did.”
“I will take any excuse available that forces you to spend time with me.”
“Because I don’t spend enough willingly?”
“Correct.” We exchange a couple of small snickers that are followed by me kicking my head in the direction of the board. “How about a roundskie, aye?” Carefully placing the basket beside the wall, I was just occupying is done during her closing of the distance. “Show you another way I keep my mitts so silky?”
“Is there a sport on this planet you are not willing to play?”
“All sports are given equal opportunity to be appreciated.”
“Least favorite?”
“Korfball.”
“What the fuck is korfball?!”
I toss a blue beanbag in her direction on a light chuckle.
“That’s not real shit.” She hastily shakes her head post catching it. “You’re making that up to fuck with me.”
“That is not how I want to fuck you, Ducky.” The nickname quickly reminds me of what’s in my pocket. “Oh! I got something for you at the airport!”
“I’m not interested in the herp dog but thank you.”
“That is something my latest STD test would tell you I do not have.”
“How recent?”
“Last week.” Her lips pull together in preparation of arguing which pushes me to add, “It’s why I went to med post pracky instead of the grocery store with you.”
“Fuck you for that. How was I supposed to know where to find fiddleheads?!”
“Perhaps…ask?”
She flashes me her middle finger only to instantly receive another round of light laughs.
Cooking for her has sort of become a habit.
And one of my better ones.
Her reliance on me to eat better helps me maintain my own personal dedication to it.
Mostly, it’s just tossing shit in the crockpot and whipping up a salad to go with it; however, on the occasion, with a bit of goading from Father, I go balls out.
Try out for the big leagues.
Which is what making fiddlehead and ricotta pasta was.
It was also a fucking disaster that ended up with emergency BBQ lime wings being ordered.
However, the effort was greatly appreciated.
Food has most certainly becomes a language we speak to one another.
Arden folds her arms protectively across her chest in unison with asking, “What’d you get me and why?”
“Well, since you were kind enough to draw a dick on the bottom of my kicks this time rather than the top…” her devious smirk has me even more excited about the present, “I thought a thank you gift was in order.”
Pulling the rolled-up wad from my pocket prompts her into sassily stating, “And here I thought you were popping pipe over getting to throw these beanbags.”
“While annihilating you at all athletic competitions does put a smile on my face-”
“Not all.”
“Zorbing shouldn’t even be considered a real sport! You’re just racing around in a giant hamster ball!”
“You’re just mad you lost.”
“I didn’t lose.”
“You didn’t win.”
“I came in third.”
“Out of four.”
“I still beat that other player!”
“She was twelve.”
“Moving. On,” I grunt in tandem with thrusting the object at her. “I bought these for you.”
Arden giggles, grabs the object, and immediately rolls down the edge of the socks to reveal the rubber ducky pattern.
“I figured you’re on my feet,” her mirth-filled glare glides up to mine, “I should be on yours.”
She tucks the article into the pocket of her thick, tan fluffy sweater with a crooked grin.
What was I supposed to do?
Not buy them?
Not go the extra lap?
Not take the shot of hopefully getting a smile, which I successfully received?
“You think I won’t wear them,” Arden snips, tone snarky yet flirty.
“I know you won’t wear them.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“I know that and the fact I’m about to whoop your arse at cornhole.” Picking up my own beanbag precedes me standing and executing a no look throw that effortlessly goes in the target. “You’ve been warned, Ducky.”
“Bring it, Hamster Boy.”
Gino for getting her to smile.
Dub for possibly having a new highly unwanted nickname.
Arden steps closer to take her shot and to my surprise, sinks it. “Boooo-yah!”
“Not bad, but,” I pick up a second green beanbag, turn to face the opposite wall, and toss it over my shoulder, smoothly scoring another point, “not good enough.”
“You know you don’t get extra points for style, aye?”
“I do with you.”
Her long nose scrunches in guilt prompting me to smugly smirk again.
Yeah.
Putting in the work is definitely getting me somewhere.
Where exactly?
Dunno.
What I do know?
I’m closer to where I wanna be and further from where I once was, which is what matters.