Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“I never have that kind of cash, but I’ll give it to you through Venmo. I’ll add an extra thousand if you do something for me,” I say.
“What?”
“You have to leave her alone from now on. I want your word.” I’m sure his honor isn’t worth shit, but it’s the only thing I can think of.
He considers this as he dabs at his nose. “Why? Guy like you—you look like you’re going places. She’s a throwaway. Who is she to you? Girlfriend? She a good fuck?”
I dip my head, hiding the anger on my face.
Who is she to me?
Yeah, that’s a story.
She’s someone I used and never looked back.
I raise my eyes. “After I pay you, if she comes to you for drugs, for anything, you need to walk away. She’s off-limits. We have a deal?”
There’s confusion on his face—I don’t think anyone’s tried to make a deal like this with him. He nods. “Alright. Bobby has the Venmo. He’s into crypto and all that. Ain’t ya, Bobby?”
“Block chain . . . the future.” Bobby holds up his phone with a QR code.
I pull out mine and scan his. Venmo pops up and we both hear a whoosh sound.
Seven thousand out of my account and on its way to a lowlife scumbag.
Bobby glances down at his phone then holds it up to his boss and they both nod their heads.
I head home to what Reece and Boone, my roommates, call Hockey House.
My stomach growls as I go inside. In the kitchen, I open the cabinet and grab a box of cereal and reach in a hand. Empty. I grab another box. Same thing. The kitchen clears out of food within seconds after one of us makes a supermarket run. I curse, wishing once again that Z still lived here. He kept things organized—and clean. I glare at the overflowing trash can.
I yell out to no one in particular. “Who keeps putting empty cereal boxes back in the cabinet?”
A voice from the couch responds. “Stop putting your dirty hands in the box and we’ll stop putting empty boxes on the shelf.”
I find Boone in the den on the couch, wearing nothing but plaid boxers and playing video games. Oddly enough, that’s the exact same position I left him in six hours ago. There’s cheese dip drizzled on his chest and two empty bags of chips next to him. A grease-stained McDonald’s bag and an empty two-liter Mountain Dew are on the coffee table. He’s chewing on a Snickers bar as dark brown hair falls in his face. He’s a good guy. Kind of innocent.
“Jesus, Boone. Have you been up all night?”
He gives me an irreverent grin as he chews. A sophomore center on the hockey team, he was on the second line last year. He was Z’s back-up and took his place when he graduated.
“We’re lifting today at one instead of ten this morning. Got it?” I tap him on his forehead. “One o’clock. Workout. As your captain, I’m commanding you to get some sleep.”
“Uh-huh.”
I sigh. The kid keeps telling me that he’s the first O’Brien to go to college, but I’ve never seen him crack a book. Lean with a muscular build, he’s not the biggest guy on the ice, but what he lacks in size, he makes up for in cunning and hustle. I’ve seen him take down players no one else could and come out on top.
Trouble is, he thinks he knows everything already.
“This conversation has been fulfilling. I’m off to get some sleep.” I turn to go up the stairs.
“Wait, one o’clock?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. I have to be somewhere this morning.”
He shoves floppy hair out of his face. “Yeah? Where?”
“The LSATs. Again.” Sure, I get decent grades to stay eligible to play hockey, but my brain chokes on tests.
He pops an eyebrow.
I shrug. “I have to get into the right law school. My brother went to Harvard. Big shoes to fill.”
He squints. “I don’t see why you have to be a lawyer to work at your dad’s hedge fund.”
“My dad expects me to be a lawyer.” The words feel like sawdust in my mouth.
Reece comes into the den, rolling his neck as he stalks around wearing tiger print bikini bottoms. Dude looks shredded from all his workouts. With broad shoulders and a stocky build like his brother Z, he’s a brick wall you don’t want to run into.
I lean on the banister, glad for the distraction. “Morning, precious. Did we wake you?”
“My bedroom is right off the den, and you two won’t shut the fuck up.” He gives a casual stretch, then darts up the stairs fast as lightning, puts his hand on my head and rubs it vigorously.
“I pass the puck!” he calls then dashes away.
“Fucker,” I say as I rear back and fix my hair. “Was that puck in your hand the whole time?”