Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Yes, actually. It’s already organized. Tomorrow morning, you get out of the early skate because you’ll be doing it with the Rainbow Raiders. It’s a junior team in Vegas that Tripp Mitchell has strong ties to.”
“Sounds good.” Well, it sounds doable, but I don’t say that.
Lane is surprised by my words too. “Okay, who are you, and where is the Oskar Voyjik I know?”
“What would the Oskar Voyjik you know do instead?”
“Flat out say no. Or barter. Maybe say he’ll do it if I give him an orgasm first.”
My lips quirk. “Ah. I get it. Didn’t take you long to get addicted to me. You want me to want you again.”
“And there he is. All is right with the world.” Then the asshole pats my chest and asks what’s for dinner.
How can Lane Pierce be my least favorite person and my favorite at the same time?
As Lane and I enter the rink on the outskirts of Vegas, my best friend—or, I guess the closest thing I have to a best friend—smirks over at me from where he’s on the ice with a bunch of kids.
He hands the reins over to his husband and skates toward us. “So it’s true.”
“What’s true?” I ask.
“That your babysitter signed you up to do all this positive PR crap.”
“Please, I am doing this out of the goodness of my own heart, and I’m offended you would think I’m here for anything other than the kids.”
“What a load of shit,” Tripp says.
I turn to Lane. “Having to deal with Tripp Mitchell’s brand of mean wasn’t on the list of things I needed to do today. Make it stop.”
Lane slaps my shoulder. “Sorry, but I can barely get you to do what I want. You think Tripp is going to listen to me?”
“Trippy!” Dex, Tripp’s golden retriever of a husband, calls out. “We need you.”
The group of teenagers around him all say, “Oooh,” and make kissy noises as Tripp makes his way back over to them.
Kill. Me. Now.
“What was that groan for?” Lane asks.
“I didn’t realize it was out loud. I don’t know what to do with these kids. They’re teenagers. They’re, like …” Scary.
“Your mental age?”
“You know, just because something is true, that doesn’t mean you have to point it out.”
Lane laughs. “You’ll be fine. You have about half an hour to get comfortable with them before the reporters show up.”
“Mm. Can’t wait.”
His hand lands on my shoulder. “If it helps, I have complete faith in you. You can do this. Because, well, you literally have no other choice.”
Asshole.
I throw on my skates, grab a stick, and head out there, skating up to Tripp to ask him what he wants me to do.
“Have fun. Dex and I love coming here because it’s not about winning. Think of it like a good old game of pond hockey, where you let other people score on you because it’ll make them feel better about themselves.”
“I literally do not understand any of the words that came out of your mouth.”
“Pretty sure you know what it’s like to let people score on you.”
“Not on the ice.”
“It’s really simple. We want to build these guys up while pushing them to be top of their game.”
“Okay. So no yelling obscenities at them like my junior coach?”
Tripp touches his heart. “Your life makes me so sad.”
“Thank you. So much. I love when you hug me with words.” And unlike Lane, Tripp doesn’t actually realize how horrible my teen years were. I have every right to find these kids scary; teenagers literally don’t give a fuck about anything.
“Hey, everyone!” Tripp yells out. Everyone on the ice stops and pays attention. “Oskar Voyjik from San Jose came by to smack-talk Vegas.”
That’s really going to win me points. Thanks, Tripp. As expected, the kids all scowl at me.
“Who wants to see a shootout between him and Dex? Player who gets the most shots by me wins. Vegas versus San Jose. It could be a preview for tonight.”
“Oh, you are so on,” I say.
Tripp’s in full goalie gear already, but Dex is like me—in jeans and his team jersey, gloves, and that’s it.
The teens clear the ice, and their coach or someone who works at the rink brings us three pucks each to put at our feet.
Dex looks at me. “Who wants to go first?”
“Ladies first.”
“I was thinking brains before beauty, but if you insist. You can go first.”
“Am I the brains here, or are you?”
Dex cocks his head. “Did you really just ask that? Even I know I’m the dumbest person in this room.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
I can tell I’ve confused him even more. “Who are you, and where is the Oskar asshole I know?”
“I wasn’t finished. You somehow got Tripp to marry you. If anything, he’s the dumb one here.”
Dex bursts out laughing, but when Tripp calls out, “I can hear you! And so can the people in the stands,” we break apart.