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)
Getting out of the beer league with her is probably some of the hardest shit I’ve ever done.
“Tell me about this commercial,” she insists on another successful throw. “What exactly are you gonna be doing?”
“Pretending to play cornhole with another mate from the league. I make my shot – naturally – and he misses causing destruction.”
Arden nods while I grab my next game piece. “And all the women here are…?”
“Actresses and models.”
“Yeah, I’m deaf, not blind, Tanner.” She steals a small glimpse at the women that are huddled together in a booth to our left. “You don’t typically get this many snipes in one room unless they’re paid to be there.”
“Yet you’re a sniper and you’re here.”
“Again,” her nose scrunches in an attempt to hide her embarrassment over being flattered, “being paid. Just by a different source.”
Before I have the opportunity to respond, an obnoxious and unfortunately, familiar voice, calls out, “Arden…amore mio.”
All color drains from her face as red rips through mine. “He gets to call you Arden?”
One finger is held up to aid in her defense. “I-”
“You are even more of a snipe now than you were when we first met,” purrs Valencio Layvon, the current captain of the Camelot Cheetahs often referred to as the Ferrari of players.
He’s fast.
Aggressive.
Has natural talent comparable to some of the greats.
He’s respected by veterans.
Worshipped by rookies.
And apparently has some sort of fucking history with the only woman I want wearing my number.
Not his.
Never fucking his.
I swear to Gretzky, if I find his sweater in her closet, Bear will have a new bath towel.
His arrival forces our frames to angle themselves towards him, an action that grants him a full-frontal view of Arden.
Which he doesn’t hesitate to take full fucking advantage of.
“Curtains are a bit darker now, aye,” he lets his hazel gaze sweep the space his fingers then lightly graze. “Still no drapes?”
He’s seen her naked?!
If he’s seen her naked, did he fuck her?!
He fucked her!
I fucking know he fucked her!
There’s no other reason she’d let him see her naked!
And I will absolutely be filing the hairless pussy information into her stats file to properly appreciate at a later date.
Arden’s mouth drops a fraction lower to finally speak only to be cut off by her ringing cell. “Ohthankfuck,” she murmurs while hastily fishing it out of the pocket that’s not being occupied by her new socks, “I have to take this.”
Layvon winks in dismissal, robbing me of the chance to say or rightfully chirp something.
Great.
He’s fantastic at blocking shots in and out of the barn.
“Frosky,” he tosses me a nod of greeting as he slides his hands into his dark denim pockets, “what’s good?”
Him about six states over.
Or seven.
Or over the goddamn ocean he crossed to play in this league.
I don’t bother with niceties, “How do you know Hoss?”
“How don’t I know Hoss?” His winking has me crunching the beanbag tighter. “You?”
His confirmation regarding their sexual past pushes me to bite, “You know she’s a dragon.”
“Still not a Slayer, aye?”
The answer tastes worse than the cornflakes and pumpernickel buttery wings I had in his city my rookie year. “No.”
“Not surprising,” he brushes off with a single glance in her direction. “Wheeling snipes in her league is out of most of yours.”
Did he really just –
“Haven’t seen you since the playoffs.” Our eyes lock again. “Helluva a goose egg to end the season on.”
Yeah.
It was not enough to lose in the playoffs.
We lost to them.
We lost to him.
And we lost in regulation because I couldn’t put one bloody point on the board.
“Non eri al matrimonio sulla spiaggia di Soddy.” The dark-haired forward I wanna punch in the face checks out Arden for a third time post declaring he didn’t see me at Soddy’s wedding. “Perché?”
“I was at a different wedding.”
It’s not every day the woman responsible for your literal birth gets married.
Not being there wasn’t exactly an option.
Not that I would’ve skipped it anyway.
I typically like weddings.
Free drafts.
Free food.
And most importantly free females often looking to ride dick to bury their sorrows over still being single – although I don’t love the hashtags that can cause.
Unlike post Cap’s wedding, I got laid at the one in Highland.
It was actually the last time I got laid.
I haven’t touched the tiniest bit of arse since then.
I could practically qualify for sainthood at this point.
“Shameskie.” His grin grows cartoonishly villainous. “The amount of snapper I slid into was almost too much for one man to handle.” An amused grunt precedes a small shrug. “La parola chiave è quasi.”
I’m sure the “keyword there is almost” is a fucking lie.
An exaggeration.
One that sounds even more arrogant in Italian.
Perk of playing with dudes from all around the world?
You can basically become multilingual if you pay enough attention.
“I know one hot little dragon I’ll always have room for,” Layvon toothily announces, “no matter who else has been on my dick.”