Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 81745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
“For those of you tuning in for the first time, I’m your host, Layla. And I have Brian on the command with me.” I look over and wait for Brian to chime in. “Brian, I believe you owe me ten bucks.” He groans. “I’m not going to say I told you so, but I told you so. I told you that Montreal was going to win.” I mention the game played last night when the team lost six to four.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Let’s take a call, shall we?” he suggests, patching through a caller.
“Hey, Layla, longtime listener of your show,” the guy on the phone says.
“Thank you.” I lean back in my chair. “What did you think of the trio last night?” I ask, talking about the captain and his two assistants.
“The loss was a hard one to take,” he says, huffing out.
“Nothing hurts more than having a team come into your building and leave with a win,” I tell him.
“They made mistakes last night, for sure, but I think Weber is getting better and better,” he says of Ralph. “Stevenson is perfect each time,” he says of Manning, the captain on the team. “And Adams?” He whistles. “The guy is on fire. I think this is going to be his year.” I inwardly groan and roll my eyes so hard that they might get stuck. “His stick is hot.”
“Yeah,” I say, agreeing with him as much as I hate to, “I’ll give it to Adams. He’s on a four-game scoring streak, and he’s at a plus six.” I throw out the stats that I looked up this morning, hating every single second of it. “I mean, if he stays out of the penalty box, he really does have a chance to beat his record last year.”
The caller huffs out as they usually do when I try to prove them wrong. “Mark my words, this is his year.”
“Listen, I wholeheartedly hope that you're right, but …” I roll my neck. “They didn’t look like they were a team last night. Montreal came in and handed them their behinds on a platter. It was brutal out there. Justin Stone scored his first hat trick of the season, and we are only in October. Dallas needs to get it together, or there’s no way they’re going as far as they did last year.”
We answer additional callers for thirty more minutes. When we get a commercial break, Brian pops back into my headset. “Just got word from Becca.” I look over at him. “Manning is out today. It’s only going to be Miller,” he says, and another groan escapes my throat.
Somebody out there hates me. They have to hate me. Miller has been a thorn in my side ever since he set eyes on me one year into his contract during that dumb fundraiser. He came from Chicago, and every single time he sees me, he goes balls to the wall to convince me to sleep with him or at least have dinner with him. And it doesn’t matter how many times I tell him no; it just pushes him to crack me harder.
I’ve been around these players for a long time. I’ve seen the trail of women they leave behind season after season, and I vowed early on to never be that woman. My cold coffee tastes even worse when I see Miller fucking Adams, top centerman of the Dallas Oilers—and a walking sex god, according to himself—walking down the hall.
Brian gets up and shakes his hand. The manwhore is wearing jeans and a black Dallas Oilers shirt with a leather jacket on. His hair looks like either he just ran his hands through it or someone else did for him. He looks over at me and smirks like a fucking asshole. I ignore the way my stomach just rose and fell. Shit, is cold office coffee bad for you? Walking into the room with his motorcycle helmet, he places it in one of the two empty chairs.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says. I lean back and vomit in my mouth.
“Layla.” I say my name, and he looks at me. “You know, in case you forgot.”
“I can never forget you,” he says, grabbing the empty chair and pulling it out to sit in it.
“Since when do you ride a death trap?” I ask as I grab my cup of cold, gross coffee and take a drink, my mouth suddenly dry.
“I usually take my bike out when I want to clear my head,” he says. “It’s not every day you feel like you got ass fucked by a cactus.” He mentions last night’s loss, and I want to laugh, but the coffee goes down the wrong pipe, and I end up choking.
Air struggles to find its way to my lungs as I cough. Miller comes to save the day as though he’s some kind of hero by rushing around the desk and slapping my back. “Jesus.”