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)
“Strategy is not really my strong suit.”
“Speaking?”
“It’s like Hot Ones. I’d rather play hockey than simply discuss it.”
“Coaching?”
“No.”
“Training?”
The idea receives an intrigued hum.
“Oooo,” my girlfriend purrs, turning her unbuckled frame towards mine. “Does Hamster Boy like the idea of training other players?”
“He doesn’t hate the idea.”
“Let’s talk shop then…”
For almost the remainder of our drive, we cycle through where my skills as well as what I’ve learned could be put to good use post hockey to a soundtrack mixture of Maluma, Shakira, and Bear’s loud – almost otherworldly – snores.
Our arrival into the small town not only instantly receives the jaw dropping response I was hoping for but the kid at Christmas one most adults don’t get to display themselves. “Ohmyg…” She cuts herself off by frantically tapping my bicep. “Ohmyg…” Girlish shrieks escape prompting Bear to lift his head. “Ohmyg…”
This time our fluffy backseat passenger releases a low woof in disapproval.
“I know, mate,” I playful poke while pulling over to the side of the downtown road. “She really should finish at least one of those.”
A sassy sneer is twitched my way before asking, “How did you find this place?”
“You mean how did I locate one of your best kept secrets?”
“It’s not a secret,” she argues at the same time I kill the engine. “I told you about it the first time we hung out alone.”
“Ah,” one finger lifts into the air, granting me a moment to turn to face her, “you told me Dos Santos and a food truck, not the location-”
“Figured it would be pretty obvious considering you can drive through the whole downtown area in like seven minutes flat.”
“Nor the name of the truck.”
To that she surrenders a small shrug.
Weak dub, but I’ll take it.
“Locating your father’s cousin’s food truck – post a failed google search – required shoving a mountainous amount of tequila and nachos into Wahl,” I unlock the doors for us to exit, “convincing him to text his half-brother whose mom lives here and then making sure he followed up with his brother to get the name of the truck as well as where it is typically parked.”
Mirth glimmers in her gaze. “So much work just to take me out for wings.”
“The best wings.”
“The best wings,” she echoes between snickers.
“And you are worth the work I put in, Arden.” Leaning slightly over mindlessly occurs. “Every. Time.”
Her lips brush against mine yet instead of slipping her tongue into my mouth – like I’m wanting – she coos, “I’m starving.”
Light laughs precede me delivering a quick peck. “Let’s get my Slayer fed then.”
The two of us exit her jeep and retrieve Bear together.
His excitement to sniff and guard and sniff everything in sight for the short distance over to the truck parked between two corner buildings adds unexpected elation to the moment.
Seeing her happy that he’s happy, has me happy at seeing her happy.
It’s basically one giant circle jerk of joy.
And easily becoming the best Christmas Eve, I’ve ever had.
Our arrival at the truck is immediately acknowledged by her relative who leans his jean jacket covered forearms onto the countertop. “Reserva para dos, ¿si?”
Arden open mouth chuckles at the male I’ve only been in contact with by email. “You don’t take reservations, Álvaro.”
“I do when it’s Nochebuena and Maria is steadily making wedding cookies and I’d prefer to be closed.”
“You’re closed?” Concern carves itself into her stare as Bear sits attentively between us. “The food truck is closed?!”
“For the holiday,” he warmly informs on a crooked grin. “I opened today only for Romeo here. Between the cost he was willing to pay and the drive he was willing to make simply for you to have ‘the best wings you’ve ever head’, it was impossible not to.”
Arden’s fingertips sweetly cross behind Bear’s head to touch mine.
“The truck itself is doin’ muy muy bein, though.” Pride expands itself in his expression. “We may open another next summer.”
“In Dalvegan?!” She teasingly pushes. “Because you know me and Dad alone could keep you in business.”
“Put it in the Locker District and you can easily plan for a third and fourth. Puckheads love wings.”
Our host extends his open palm towards me. “Álvaro.”
“Frosky.”
“Y él es de ese color,” he chortles, prompting her to do the same.
“I am not that pasty,” I casually counter.
“You speak Spanish?” inquires the longer haired male.
“More like understand a bit of ‘Tex-Mex’.”
“Ah,” her relative chuckles again, “the contemporary cultural blend. What you,” his chin kicks in her direction, “your dad and most of my kids speak. Yo apruebo.”
A questioning glance is tossed to my Slayer to which she translates, “He approves.”
Good.
Another dub.
Perhaps if he likes me…when the time comes – and it will come – her father will as well.
“I’ve got two orders of Mexi-Texi chili-lime wings coming right up and our new elotes to enjoy while you wait.”