Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
I laugh. “You going to be okay?”
“I’m sure we’ll muddle through.”
My friends are still busy eating and drinking everything on the back table, talking about the game excitedly. The fans are starting to file out of the arena, but as I look around, I see people still partying in the suites. I turn back to Sammy with a worried frown.
“You don’t mind, do you?” I ask.
“You’re kidding, right?” she replies. “Get out of here. Go meet your Prince Charming.”
I grab Sammy and hug her tight. “I love you.”
“I love you back. Now, go. Oh, tell him I said great game, and if he’s in the mood, I wouldn’t mind an autographed sweater.”
I laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’re the best, babe.”
“Yeah, I know,” I reply with a wink.
The man smiles at me and leads me out of the suite. I follow him downstairs and through a labyrinth of hallways until we come to a wide corridor. The walls are adorned with murals of what I assume are team legends.
There are clusters of other people in the tunnel waiting. Most of them are behind a rope line and look like they’re waiting for the teams to come out so they can get autographs or something. Standing alone on the other side of the tunnel makes me feel a little conspicuous, and I can’t help but notice people are casting curious glances at me.
Mostly to avoid the weird looks from the other people across the way, I settle the hat with the team logo on my head then look down and smooth out the black and purple, long-sleeved t-shirt I bought in the team store before the game.
Sammy wanted me to get Dawson’s sweater, but I quickly vetoed that idea. I thought it would look way too desperate. So, I settled for a generic team design so I could support Dawson without looking super needy.
“Hey, you guys got lucky tonight.”
A big, burly guy wearing a Seattle sweater is leaning against the rope line staring hard at me, a scowl on his face. He’s obviously had a few tonight.
“Hey, little girl. I’m talkin’ to you,” he growls.
I look away, trying to ignore him as his friends try to hold him back. But he shrugs them off, ducks under the rope line, and marches over to me. He stops just a foot or two in front of me, his belly straining against his sweater as he leans forward, his dark eyes narrow, his lips curled back into a sneer.
His warm breath—reeking of beer and cigarettes—washes over my face, and I turn my head to the side, trying to avoid breathing it in.
“I said you guys got lucky tonight.” He emphasizes each word as if I’m hard of hearing.
“I heard you the first time.”
“So? What do you have to say to that?”
“I have nothing to say to that. And I have nothing to say to you. So, please. Just leave me alone.”
His laughter is harsh and grating. “A chickenshit. Just like your team, huh?”
I grit my teeth and look him in the eye. “Do you get off picking on girls half your size?” I snap. “Is that your thing? Do you think that makes you a big man or something?”
“I just don’t like mouthy little bitches.”
His friends are calling to him but the man steps forward, his round belly bumping into me as he looms over me, his face red, his eyes filled with anger. What he’s angry about, I have no idea. I’ve never had to deal with anybody who takes their sports as seriously as this guy does. But the way he’s staring at me makes me shudder as fear ripples through my heart.
I hate to admit it, but this guy is scary. He intimidates me. Mostly because I have no trouble believing he has no qualms about putting his hands on a woman.
“You hear me? I don’t like mouthy little bitches,” he repeats.
“Neither do I.”
The man takes a step back, a startled expression crossing his face. I turn and when I see Dawson walking up, his jaw set and a scowl on his face, the wave of relief that washes over me is profound. Dressed in blue slacks and a white button-down shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up, he looks like he’s walking off a GQ photoshoot. But there’s no mistaking the look on his face. He means business.
Dawson steps between the man and me, glaring hard at him. The tunnel suddenly goes dead silent, and there’s a nervous energy crackling in the air around us. It feels like the atmosphere right before a storm breaks. The man who accosted me is about as tall as Dawson, but he’s heavyset and obviously out of shape. If it comes to blows, Dawson is going to kill this man without breaking a sweat.