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)
No.
All I have are my Christmas movies, these silky, snowflake pajamas I don’t remember buying, and the funds to order as much room service hot chocolate as I want.
Maybe it’s not the best in between jobs routine, but it’s mine.
It’s what I know.
What I’m familiar with.
And most likely the one I’ll be living ‘til the day my final credits roll.
Chapter 23
Igor
I run my fingers nervously through my hair for the millionth time.
Where the fuck is she?!
She never met my parents at the game.
She never came home to relieve my mom from watching Bella for the rest of the night.
She never called or texted or answered any of my calls or texts.
And I know she never came by the house to grab her stuff before the game because everything is exactly where it always is including Gizmo – who hangs from our bedroom doorknob – and her favorite Christmas snow globe that is a homage to two of her favorite cheesy Christmas movies, Snowglobe and A Snow Globe Christmas, which despite their female lead and titles have nothing to fucking do with each other.
And to think they say romance novels are lazy when it comes to naming shit.
Another heavy sigh shakes my exhausted frame.
I don’t get it.
It’s like she just…fucking…vanished.
Which isn’t like her.
Yeah, I know I accused her of basically doing this very fucking bullshit, but it was out of anger.
Not fact.
She didn’t have to make it a fact.
And that’s not like her either.
Blatant fuck you tactics isn’t my Slayer’s style.
She’s more likely to mind fuck torture me by asking my opinion on lingerie when I know she’s pissed at me for not getting all the laundry in the hamper or “forget” to heat my bone broth while she’s dealing with Bella’s no screentime before school meltdown over wanting to watch Bluey on a whim because I refuse to wait to take a call from my agent until I’m in my vehicle.
She’s never…just…not shown up.
At least not before last night.
What if something happened to her?
What if she was taken by a mafia boss as a ransom chip to ensure, I lose the next few games to keep us out of the playoffs because he’s got a money laundering scheme, he’s running through an online betting system?!
I fold my hands together on the nape of my neck and shut my eyes.
Yeah no.
I gotta stop reading mafia romance shit when I haven’t had enough sleep.
And thanks to Bella repeatedly melting down over Nanny Joey not being home with us, I probably got nappies level of rest.
If. That.
All of a sudden, the sound of the front door closing, pulls my attention in that direction, hope soaring and heart pounding in anticipation of the woman I want wearing my last name strolling in to reassure me she’s alive.
Pissed beyond a reasonable doubt but alive.
Father’s cheerful face not only catches me off guard it causes me to grunt, “Eto tol'ko ty.”
“Not the best greeting,” he attempts to teasingly jab. “Ne samyy khudshiy.”
In no mood to play along, I lower my hands to my gray sweats pockets. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to take care of my little vnuchka until her mother returns home.”
I don’t even bother correcting the label because truthfully…there’s no correction to make.
Joeski is Bella’s mom.
And I’m pretty sure my stubborn little princess knew it long before any of us did.
“How’d you know she still wasn’t here?”
“You would’ve texted your mom the news by now.”
“Why didn’t she come instead?”
“She has a meeting this morning.” My stare watches him park himself on the opposite side of the kitchen from me. “So, I volunteered.”
“But don’t you have a morning skate?”
His shrug is so emotionless it furrows my forehead. “I’ll miss it.”
“Ty?” Craning my neck forward can’t be helped. “You are going to miss your morning team skate? Net.” Rapidly shaking my head thoughtlessly occurs. “There’s no way you – of all fucking people – are going to miss your morning skate. You’re probably just gonna…wake my daughter up the minute I leave, shove her in some random clothes by bribing her with a rainbow sprinkle donut and uninterrupted tablet time, and feed her a box of Gushers to keep her quiet while you’re at practice.”
Father’s head angles itself slowly to one side, unmistakable hurt thrumming through his gaze. “Ty pravda dumayesh' obo mne tak plokho, synok?”
I fucking used to.
I fucking used to think that badly of him and believe nothing would ever come above hockey.
Not mom.
Not me.
Damn sure not his grandchild.
But given the way he’s been behaving over the past few months…I don’t exactly know anymore.
He’s stopped shoving his stats down my throat and giving unwarranted advice on my technique. He’s criticized me less for what I’m eating and cheering me on more for the natural healing remedies I’m trying in order to avoid getting addicted to pain substances like so many players do. He’s been skipping the need to host watch parties to brag about me and began attending the bigger ones officially hosted by the team where he always sends a selfie to me to see them together during periods.