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 then things still became even worse due to a vertigo spell that led to me puking on a snow-covered plant in front of what appeared to be the prettiest puck bunny photo challenge.
And now?
Now, I’m being told I can’t even postgame sulk over our loss in fucking peace?!
Why?
Whhhhyyyy?!?!
Whhhhhyyyyyyyyy am I being smited like I’m the lead in a Greek mythology movie?
Er…smote?
Fuck.
Non-hockey words are so not my thing.
Keeping my cool is beyond difficult. “How do you not have any spare rooms?”
“It’s a full weekend, ma’am,” the mousy bell boy behind the front desk squeaks. “There was a hockey game in town, so we’re completely booked up.”
“I’m aware,” I practically growl on a glare. “I’m with the away team.”
“Mighty rough loss tonight, huh?” He cringes. “One to five.”
“Yeah, sometimes life sucks. Like now.” My sneer manages to precede my finger whirling. “Could you get back to poorly explaining how you have no room for me?”
“We weren’t expecting you to need more than one room-”
“I wasn’t expecting that either!”
“And our number of…spare rooms was already quite limited due to the game. The only other unoccupied room we had was the honeymoon suite-”
“I’ll take that.”
“-which we actually booked for this wonderful couple from Mistletoe, Montana while they were working in your room.”
“Sonofawh-”
“While we have nothing left here, what we can do is book you a great room at our sister hotel just down the road as well as reimburse your account-”
“The company’s account.”
“-for any inconvenience this may have caused.”
“May have caused?” Outrage has me briefly curling my fingers towards his face. “I have nowhere to sleep for the fucking night and you think that may have caused an inconvenience?!”
He gives the knot to his tie a small adjustment. “Ma’am-”
“Do not fucking ma’am me again or I will drop the gloves like my boys did to yours for that wildly illegal high sticking.”
Gah, I hope Peck is okay.
I felt that shit, and I was in the fucking stands.
“Mrs. Hoss-”
“I’m not my mother.”
“Ms. Hoss,” squeaks the front desk attendant, “I have offered you what I have available to offer.”
“Okay,” my finger follows along the lettering of his nametag, “Mr. Bakshi.” Folding my arms across my chest is done alongside a sardonic grin. “Your offers suck.”
His open palms lift in surrender.
“What’s your policy about people sleeping in the lobby?”
“It is not permitted, Ms. Hoss.”
“Then I suggest you find me a permission slip from corporate because I’m not hauling my shit, in the fucking snow, to an Uber, to trek me six miles down the road just to catch a few Zs.”
“Six blocks.”
“Do you wanna be permanently cut from team Frost?” There’s no stopping my gaze from narrowing. “Because pissing off paying patrons is how you get your contract terminated.”
His eyes widen in obvious worry.
“Wheel,” I insist on a waving my fingers. “Find me somewhere in this building to sleep.”
He hastily nods and scampers off leaving me to wallow alone in the vacant main lobby.
This wouldn’t be such a big deal if Khurana was here.
I’d just double bunk in his room.
But he’s not.
Why?
Because only one of us is assigned to stalk Tanner “Go Fuck Yourself” Frosky this season.
Cutting a minor glance to the right reveals to me my biggest problem incarnate hanging out at the bar.
Fuck. Him.
Fuck him and his whole “believe I’m not like the others” bullshit I was buying into.
He clearly is.
That’s why he ditched me for pussy back in A2.
That’s why he hasn’t been by my house since.
And that’s why he hasn’t continued to demand more of my personal info in order to give me the camera time I need for his stupid mini docuseries, which I wouldn’t have to do if I would just fucking quit.
I bet a hundo I could find a hockey gig in Greenland.
They play.
I mean…they gotta, right?
It’s like ice central.
It’d be stupid not to.
Curious if I’ve already seen the bunny that I know will be hopping on his stick tonight, I lean slightly further back to side-eye his choice only to spot Peck instead.
Huh.
That’s…weird.
Since when do they hangout?
Since when do they hangout unmandated?
Concern causes me to cross from where I am to the sectioned off bar area where they seem to be sharing one of the boys’ collective favorite dishes up north.
“Fancy poutine,” I playfully coo from the space between them before snagging a gravy covered fry off of Frosky’s plate. “There’s some shit you don’t see every day.”
“It feels better after a garbage game,” Snowman nonchalantly announces at the same time he reaches for his glass.
My eyebrow helplessly quirks. “Is that a glass of vodka?”
“Water,” he sighs between sips. “Pecks doesn’t drink.”
I toss the young, black hair and blue-eyed player a skeptical stare.
“I really don’t!” He innocently croaks.
“Not even brewskies?”
The shaking of his head precedes him grabbing a gravy-soaked fry off his own plate. “Fiancée can’t drink. And I don’t like to drink.” He chomps on the very edge of the piece. “Unless hot chocolate counts. Does that count?!”