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)
“The hospital.”
Horror swiftly replaces hostility. “Oh shit…for Becks?”
I nod at the same time I flip my stick to be blade side up.
“Alcohol poisoning?”
“Maybe?”
“Maybe?!” She shrieks, arms thrown up into the air. “What the fuck do you mean maybe, Frosky?!”
“I mean I don’t know.” Placing the edge of the white cloth tape near the toe, I begin the traditional wrapping process. “One minute I’m on the phone bitching about a weird word for excessively arrogant-”
“I take it your name wasn’t enough letters.”
A tiny mirthful glare is shot in her direction. “And the next, I heard a thud.” I keep my pacing and spacing even. “I hung up the phone, went to his room, found his head slightly bashed, and immediately called the medics.” Pausing precedes meeting her gaze. “Draw a dick.”
Disbelief doesn’t waste time covering her expression. “What?”
“Draw a dick.” Tipping my head to the waiting spot is accompanied by a stern follow up. “Seriously.”
The crinkling of her brows emphasizes her bewilderment. “Why?”
“Every stick I’ve played with this season has had a dick drawn on it thanks to you and your ‘I’m a dick therefore I need a dick on all my things’ policy.” I repeat the gesture. “And you know hockey players. We’re-”
“Superstitious,” she says in tandem with me.
“And now that you’ve brought it up-”
“You brought it up,” Arden mumbles while removing the lid of the sharpie she keeps hooked onto her Dalvegan’s polo.
“You have on your socks?”
“Yes.”
“Which ones?”
“Knee highs.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Show me.”
“Still no.”
“Show me.”
Arden sharply points the marker at me. “Say ‘show me’ again and the next dick I draw will be on your face.”
Light laughs linger down the hallway prior to me whispering, “The next dick you see will be on your face.”
She swallows her snicker, shakes her head, and snips, “Finished.”
“Is what I’ll be saying later…”
“Not if you don’t score.” Arden meets my gaze and recaps the writing object. “There’s no room in my bed for scorers who don’t score…”
At that, she sassily begins backing away, summoning a more savage response than I expected, “And you will be screaming on my cock after screaming in the stands, Slayer.”
“Maybe…” One slow, teasing lick to her lips is given. “Maybe not.”
Displeased and determined growls flitter through the space as I resume taping all the necessary parts of my stick.
Oh, I am definitely going to be in her bed tonight.
I damn sure don’t want to be alone in my own.
Rather than keeping me benched to begin the second period, I’m immediately put in.
Losing the faceoff is somewhat anticipated – Peck really does have some incredible stats in that area – however our team promptly getting possession isn’t.
Payne’s unexpected control of the puck pushes him to create as much distance as he possibly can before their defense glides in for reinforcements.
One pass is all he has time to execute, and one pass is all we need.
The tape-to-tape execution allows me to fake a forward shot only to slyly slip it back between my legs and upward, knocking into the crossbar, over the goaltender’s shoulder, and down into the net.
Rumbles of frustration from Seattle are smothered out by the goal buzzer.
The boys yelling in approval.
The roars of the crowd that have shot to their feet to chant “Ra” in celebration of the impressive shorthanded delivery.
I excitedly knock buckets with the boys on the ice prior to skating over for high-fives from the bench that I stumble onto afterward.
Additional celebration sounds flood the sold-out stadium along with the announcer disclosing the details that have me smiling into the camera. However, the instant it’s elsewhere, I cut a small glimpse to the tunnel where I know Arden is watching.
Our eyes lock just long enough for me to wolfishly wink.
Oh, I’ll be in her bed tonight.
And tomorrow night.
And every other night of the week because much like being on this team…it’s exactly where I belong.
Chapter 20
Arden
I place my non-sauced palm flat over my chest and rub it in a small circle prompting Becks to curiously cock his head to the side. “Why are you feelin’ yourself up at the table?” He sucks a bit of the wing flavoring from his thumb prior to flicking a pointed finger at me. “You wanna play charades or some shit?”
“It’s please in sign language, you fucking plug,” I lightly laugh as Tanner slides the container, we’ve all been eating out of across the circular surface we’re congregating around at the rehab facility. “And this,” my open palm is placed near my chin before coming outward, “is thank you.”
“Okay,” he wipes his messy fingers onto a paper towel, “so we’re not playing Pictionary?”
“Pictionary is drawing, mate,” Tanner chuckles while leaning back in his wicker seat. “You are thinking of Guesstures.”
“No, I’m thinking, Hot Headed Hoss – of all broadskies – doing sign language is a clear and distinct sign that the end of times is near, aye.” Kicking him under the table causes him to wince yet doesn’t halt laughter from any of us. “Come on, bro. C'est bizarre, non?”