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)
Not as easy it bloody looks.
Especially not around the holidays.
I swear I’m one team soc’ event away from leaving the best season I’ve ever had in my professional career just to be able to kiss my girlfriend in front of the boys.
And don’t even get me started on the media frenzy I seemingly can’t avoid.
Browsing the lingerie section had them reporting I must be involved with a lingerie model.
Politely chatting with an attractive pediatric nurse during a charity Christmas caroling competition I attended with Cap resulted in speculations that her and I were a thing – which she then posted pictures of her husband to clarify that we weren’t.
And cheerfully signing the coffee cup of a hot pink cowgirl hat wearing bombshell next to dangling mistletoe meant I was cheekily giving her my cell.
Thankfully, Arden doesn’t immediately believe the reports like she used to, but I look forward to the day I do not have to constantly explain myself.
That she simply sees them and knows.
Believes.
Which would be a day that could grace us with its debut much sooner if we weren’t on the same team – so to speak.
Two taps on the guest bedroom door in my apartment inform me that it’s not actually closed; however, when I stroll inside, Becks’ immediate frozen disposition clearly displays he believed otherwise.
My eyes cut the half empty bottle of vodka in his possession a curious glance before closing in on the hand that’s partially hidden by the charcoal comforter. “Tell me your dick is in your other hand.”
He swiftly reveals to me the bottle of prescription pills with a cheesy grin.
“Honestly would’ve preferred you wanking it, mate.”
“To killin’ my pain?”
“To killing yourself.”
He rolls his head as well as his eyes. “Get off my jock about that shit, Frosky.” It takes no more than a flick of the thumb to move the lid. “I’m not crashing here for you to lecture me in between banging your broadskie, aye.”
He’s crashing here because he didn’t have anywhere else to bloody go.
No bunnies were willing to house a hockey player that doesn’t actually play hockey.
No so-called friends in other leagues were willing to have an out-of-work couch crasher.
And no other ex-teammates were willing to even answer his call to share a hotel discount rate that most of us get through a rep.
It’s like once he left the league the world stopped giving a fuck about him.
Overlooked that he even existed.
Being Gretzky is every puckheads greatest dream…while being completely forgotten is every puckheads greatest nightmare.
One that he is most certainly living.
“Becks-”
“I’m fine,” he insists prior to shaking the container into his open mouth, clearly giving no shit about the dosage. “Juste une petite douleur dans ma jambe, bud.”
Yesterday the “little pain” wasn’t in his leg but his shoulder.
Last week it was his back.
Before that it was his ankle.
Becks always claims he’s in some sort of pain unless he’s got a crest on his vest, which tells me the real pain isn’t physical.
It’s bloody mental.
And no amount of pills or booze is gonna handle that.
I casually lean my black sweater covered bicep against the door frame and announce, “I’m headed out for the holiday-”
“Already?” Becks pours an entire mouthful of liquor, gulps it in one go, and uses the back of his bottle holding hand to wipe away any remains. “I thought your flight to Highland wasn’t until late tonight.”
“It is; however, my gift to Hoss is a road trip away from here, hence why my ass is up like I’m headed for pracky rather than to pick her up.”
He does his best to smile yet falls short.
“You sure you’re going to be alright for a few days?”
“Oui,” Becks brushes off post another swig. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Perhaps because it’s Christmas Eve.”
“And?”
“And not everyone wants to be alone during the holiday.”
“I’m not alone. I’ve got, Ramirez and Warren,” his chin kicks to the flat screen on the wall opposite of him where STN seems to always be playing, “plus I’ve got a great dinner already going.” He rattles the bottle of pills around. “Et le dessert.” Becks tips the bottle in my direction on a half-hearted grin. “Cheers.”
I watch him chug down a few more ounces before offering an exiting nod.
Logically, I know I can’t save someone from themselves.
It’s similar to taking a shot from outside the crease when there are three bodies blocking the way. You’re tempted to do it anyway – after all you’re encouraged to always take the shot – yet you know it’s pointless.
That it’ll most likely result in you losing possession of the puck.
Granting the opposite team the opportunity to score.
Still.
The temptation is there.
The desire to do the logically impossible to hear the crowd cheer for you is so goddamn strong, but it’s still the wrong call.
Wrong move.
Not the one that serves anyone except you.