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)
“You read and research all the greats that ever were and then do what they did, aye.”
My head tilts incredulously to one side.
“Or is it like half that and half phycology shit?”
This time he’s delivered a quirked eyebrow alongside a cautious question, “That’s what you did in college, isn’t it, Rookie?”
“No.”
Sending my brow to the ceiling has him crumpling like an empty chip bag.
“I mean…I listened and watched more shit than I read.”
All of a sudden, the pilot states that we’re beginning our descent, an announcement that both excites and frustrates me.
On one glove, I’m so fucking ready to be on Christmas Break.
Is it long?
No.
Is it long enough to finally get a chance to bang my Slayer?
Fuck. Yes.
Which is what should be happening tonight since my mom agreed to keep Bella until tomorrow morning’s Christmas Eve activities.
The OT win here is that because of the fucking departing delay we dealt with, my daughter is definitely already with her Babu and fast asleep.
On the other glove?
I wanted to be done with this fucking book so I wouldn’t have to stay up post sex to see how it ends.
Yeah.
I’m also one of those.
I don’t wanna cop to how many early morning practices I attended after basically a power nap because I stayed up all night to finish a book.
Look, some shit you just gotta finish in one sitting.
Blame Agatha Christie for that.
She’s probably one of my favorite pallet cleansers.
Even if I’m always wrong on who the fuck did it.
I’d make a terrible detective and not just because criminals could see me coming literally a mile away.
“I wanted to be the best,” Peck nervously continues, frame shifting around uncomfortable in his seat. “And in order to the best you gotta study the best. It’s just like being on the ice. You gotta stay in shape and study the tape.”
“A somewhat antiquated phrase-”
“Did you just say antiquated?!”
“-that I still use too, but yeah. That’s one way to do shit.” A half-hearted shrug is followed by me rolling up my chip bag. “Another way, though? Study the team.” Dusting my hands on a napkin to avoid staining my suit pants is next. “Study the dream.” I toss the trash in the mini can and tuck my snack back into my travel bag. “Study what you wanna achieve.” There’s a tiny twitch of his fingers that causes me to roll my eyes. “Don’t even think about writing this shit down, Rookie.”
“But-”
“You gotta learn to think off your skates as much as you can think on ‘em.” Another shrug escapes. “It’s the best advice I can give you for when this C goes from my chest to yours.”
His blue eyes widen in disbelief. “You think-”
“I know, Rookie.” I tuck my phone into my pocket and slightly relax back into my seat. “So, use these years to get your blades sharp. Be there for the boys. Build that bond with the boys. And never forget nobody gives a fuck about us like we give a fuck about each other.”
He slowly nods prior to adjusting his designer tie. “How do I tell you I’m worried about a teammate without…fucking him over?”
Curiosity leads to me quirking an eyebrow again.
“I wasn’t…always…really…good…at bringing up issues with the boys off the ice back in college but…our coach – my future in law – kept a tight enough leash about…certain shit that I didn’t have to be.”
“Drugs.”
Peck sheepishly nods.
“Who?”
“Becks.”
Swallowing my displeasure isn’t easy.
But it’s done.
“I’ll see if I can handle shit in a little player’s only meeting after the break. Get a handle before needing to involve Blanc, aye.”
The Rookie graciously nods in agreement.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
The last shit we need is a player going into the program.
Actually.
Edit that.
The last shit we need is a huge headline made by a player who needs to be going into the program.
The fucking program that’s more of a publicity measure to pretend they’re getting help they sure the fuck aren’t.
I need to get ahead of this shit.
Assess him.
Figure out what we’re dealing with – booze, coke, pills from his injury last season – and what’s making The Rookie nervous enough to wanna speak up.
Hand to the Zambo?
This is absolutely the last shit I fucking needed before the holiday.
Post a bumpy landing, team reminder from Coach to avoid trending during the break, and me voluntarily walking Rookie over to his private plane to jet off to Vlasta to see his fiancée for a couple days, I head home for the woman I wouldn’t mind calling that someday.
I mean…not to-day.
But…someday.
Yeah.
Joeski’s without a doubt the walking, talking, jaw-dropping physical proof that the shit you find in fiction can be the shit you have in reality.
Or in some cases – like this one – even better.
An unexpected buzz in my pocket during my walk to the front door leads to me hurriedly hitting the lock button in order to check what I’m hoping is a text from Father to see if I made it yet – he’s been reaching out a bit more lately – and not a phone call from Mom telling me to come pick up Bella because something’s wrong.