Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Practice,” she casually retorts and picks up her to-go mug of coffee. “Probably bragging about how his son takes after him. Again.”
Except Father only played in The Show a few games.
He actually spent most of his career in the minors, which is why from the minute I could lace up my own skates, he’s pushed me to be everything the always changing league could ever want me to be.
Fuck, what I wanted.
Not to say that I hate having gone pro.
Or wish I was stuck in a beer league.
I guess I’d just like it in my footnotes somewhere that I would’ve appreciated having the option to do something else.
Not sure what else is.
But again, the space or right to think about it would’ve been fucking nice.
Mustering up a grin takes more effort than I intend to let on, yet being the Wonder Woman that she is, Mom immediately catches it. “You know your father’s proud of you, Ig.”
“Is he proud of me or is he proud of all the shit he thinks he’s done for me in my career?”
“Can’t it be both?”
“Can’t I have a moment that’s just mine?” An all too familiar, all too annoying hum echoes around the open kitchen, prompting me to add. “I didn’t mean that.”
“You did.”
“Okay, yeah, no, I did, but not like that.” Collecting the bottles, including the surprise smoothie occurs between statements. “I just…” Not having the mental capacity to take that shot or drop the gloves for that issue right now leads to me shaking my head. “Forget I said anything. It’s game day. All this shit is just nerves fucking with me.”
She quirks a suspicious eyebrow. “You’re nervous?”
“Nemnogo.”
“About the game or impressing the woman my precious little princess is currently having a slumber party with?”
Cringing is instant.
“Care to explain?”
“Net.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Net.”
“Care to provide me with any information?”
“That would just be the pond hockey version of explaining.”
“Fine.” She places her mug down and begins slowly backing up. “I’ll just go wake her up myself and get the answers I want.”
“Nonononono,” one hand frantically waves causing me to damn near drop the bottles, “whistle on the play.”
Two fingers flick her platinum blonde strands away from her face at the same she victoriously smirks.
You know, everyone wants to credit my old man with teaching me how to handle myself in the rink, but more credit is due to this woman right here.
The one who taught me how to have the balls to make a play or get played.
“She’s…” adjusting my hold on the objects buys me time to steady my voice, “Bella’s new nanny.”
“No, she’s not.”
“What the fuck, Mom? Yes, she is.”
“No, she’s not.”
“Yes, she is.”
“We both know she’s not.”
“We don’t both know that.”
Forfuckssake, we do, but I’m not about to back down now.
Not with me up against the boards.
“There is no way that woman is really Bella’s nanny.”
“Why?” I defensively chomp on a step forward. “Because she’s kind? Because she’s beautiful? Because she’s curvy?”
“Because she looks like she can count to ten without her brain overheating.”
“Trust me. She can do a lot more than that.”
Rather than retorting to my comeback, Mom cocks her head in amusement. “You fuckin’ her?”
“What?” The bottles in my clutches magically become slippery again. “Net.”
“You know I’m all for you wheeling responsibility.”
“Mom.”
“You’re young, you’re attractive-”
“Mom.”
“Any broadskie would be lucky to-”
“FortheloveofGretzky, please do not finish that sentence.”
An amused smirk is attached to a small shoulder shrug. “Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“If you’re not bangin’ her, then that comment was about…?”
“Nothing. Just…me…defending…my new teammate.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, really. She’s fucking brilliant. She got a full ride scholarship to study early childhood education and development where she went to college. Has had articles published in some parenting magazines. And has even worked for top-cheddar people like diplomats and classical dancers.”
“I see.” Mom unleashes a cocky mmm sound again, which is honest to The Great One my least favorite noise next to a mistimed whistle blow. “You’re not fuckin’ her, but you wanna be.”
“Net, I wanna be headed to pracky.” Moving towards my bag is instant. “So, I am.”
Another all-knowing hum hits my ears planting a scowl on my face.
Why I didn’t inherit her apparent mindreading capabilities is a fucking mystery to me.
But she’s not really reading my mind because I don’t wanna fuck Joey.
I don’t wanna see her on her knees in front of me post a shower begging to suck my cock.
Or put my face between her tits as she bounces on top of me post pracky.
Or hear how much louder she screams my name during a period between the sheets versus one in the rink.
Simply being attracted to the first non-puck slut that doesn’t work for the team doesn’t mean I wanna bang her.
Although, running through that theoretical hat-trick I just came up with on the fly makes me think that I do.
“Do me a solid?” The plastic water bottles land on top of my lucky towel inside my bag. “Can you give her a highlights reel when she wakes up?” Squishing them down precedes me zipping the item closed. “We didn’t exactly have much time post the family event.”