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)
“Pity,” my twin not so mutedly whispers.
“We should’ve just had corgis,” mumbles Mom on another sip of her beverage. “Or cats.”
“They honestly fight like the latter,” Dad agrees at a similar volume.
“What. The. Fuck. Do you mean you’re starting a job with my team tomorrow?!”
“It’s not your team,” Audrey reminds at the same time she crosses one dark tan mini skirt covered leg over the other. “You don’t own it.”
“Change that,” I not so playfully plead to my parents. “Please.”
“We’re not buying you a hockey team so that you don’t have to associate with your sister,” Dad mirthfully declares.
“You didn’t even consider it!”
“Associating with you doesn’t do anything for my soc’ stock either,” the first born exasperatingly claims. “However, this isn’t about my soc’ stock, but the family’s.”
“Our company doesn’t need a boost,” I quickly argue around Bear snuffing my face, checking for additional injuries post my momentary choking. “Loca Mocha Casabloca is one of the most popular and most trending coffee chains in the world.”
“And you don’t stay that way by resting on your morals,” she idiotically chomps.
“Laurels,” Mom gently corrects while tilting her light, brown sugar, makeup free face to one side.
“Did you fire her?” is accompanied by an open palm flying across her black, half-shirt clad chest. “Do I need to worry about her trolling us?!”
Mom’s mouth twitches to rebut yet busies itself with another sip instead.
Pretty.
Poised.
But ditzy.
Exhaustingly. Ditzy.
I swear I lose braincells at every one of these family brunches.
And what makes it worse?
The fucking media eats up airheads like this.
Especially when they’re attached to famous athletes such as the one that thinks he wants to date me when all he really wants to do is bang me.
That pylon probably doesn’t even understand that those two things are different.
“As you know LMC has always had close ties with The Dragons due to the start the arena gave our family’s company when it was first finding its footing.”
“They let us sell our coffee out of a small corner booth the first year and then the concession stands the next and then had players do appearances at the first actual shop in exchange for free coffee ultimately giving the business a boost we may have never acquired elsewhere.” Grabbing a piece of bacon occurs on an eyeroll. “Yeah. Yeah. I know the bedtime stories.”
“I was always asleep by then,” Audrey offhandedly interjects.
“The Dragons – like the city of Dalvegan itself – have played a vital role in our success, which is why LMC became the biggest sponsor of The Dragons,” Dad casually continues to explain. “And by being their biggest sponsor we have a unique opportunity to field test new flavors, new designs, new merchandise, and new marketing techniques in a controlled yet diversified setting.”
“Get to the blue line, old man,” I unhappily command between chomps.
“You sister pitched the idea to document our testing adventures on social media as a way to not only drum up early intrigue but as a way to showcase that we do what we say we do. That we – The Hosses – truly are out there interacting and connecting with our community.”
My head tilts in suspicion. “She pitched this idea?”
“According to your mom.”
There’s no stopping my gaze from cutting over to her. “Mom.”
“Audrey…suggested…we conduct…more frequent…” the gracefully slender woman my twin and I get our lissome figures from notably struggles to search for appropriate phrasing, “face to face intercommunications between us and those representing us in athletic endeavors.”
The launching of my eyebrows occurs at the same time I shoot my sister an incredulous stare to speak the non-sugarcoated truth.
“I just wanna take more pictures and videos with the players.” Her shoulders bounce an innocent shrug. “They’re hot and rich and single and in total need of a trophy.”
“And there it is…” I mutter with another mocking smirk.
They’ve done this shit our entire fucking lives.
And to an extent, fine.
I get it.
Branding matters.
But their ridiculous dedication to rewriting one of their daughters’ lives rather than just pushing her to actually be better is infuriating.
They treat her with the same peewee rules they did when she was actually peewee aged.
They coddle her.
And bubble her.
And fishbowl her like she would die if her precious face ever touched the ice.
I swear, they behave like she’s the one that might go deaf at any time.
Stress over the idea of being around her more often prompts unexpected ringing to begin in my right ear – tinnitus being one of the unfortunate symptoms of my condition – causing me to fidget with the top of my hearing aid, a reaction that pushes Dad to investigate, “You okay, mi pequeña rebelde?”
“No.” My fingers dramatically fall to fold with the other set that’s in my lap, doing my best to ignore the obnoxious noise. “I’m not only being forced to follow my least favorite player around fulltime – like some sort of puck bunny with an all access pass – but I’m also being forced to spend time with my least favorite sibling on the clock, which is clearly some sort of updated take on classic Greek Mythology torture.”