Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
I open my blog and start my post.
Is a fish considered a pet? Here are my reasons.
Chapter Sixteen
Mark
Sitting down at the table by myself with my plate for lunch, I hear the chattering all around but don’t really pay attention. I grab my phone and check my emails, then shoot off a couple to Tracy about New Orleans and one to my brother.
“I swear to God.” I look up and see the chair in front of me being pulled out, and Matthew sitting down with his own plate. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I can’t wait to go on the road.” I shake my head and take a bite of my chicken. “I’m going to sleep in the middle of the bed like a starfish,” he says, taking a bite of his meal.
“Rough night?” I ask, being polite.
“Yeah, the kids are having nightmares, so they pile into the bed with us. Woke up with the biggest hard-on of my life, and then when I went to reach for my wife, I got my daughter’s head. Do you know how fast it takes a boner to go down?” He looks at me. “A millisecond.”
I laugh at him. “Good to know.” The other chair is pulled out, and I look over to see Evan sitting down now with his plate.
“Hey,” he says, opening his bottle of water. “What are you guys talking about?” he asks, taking a bite of his pasta.
“Matthew is going to sleep like a starfish,” I inform him of the half conversation we just had, and Evan looks at him. For the rest of the meal, I only contribute a couple of comments, and only when it has to do with hockey.
“I can’t wait to get back on the ice again and start playing,” Evan says, leaning back in his chair. “I like to practice, but I’m getting antsy.”
“I’ll remind you of that in January when you’re bitching that you can’t wait to take a vacation,” I point out and then start to get up.
“Buzzkill PM,” Evan says, using my nickname. “Are you giving any interviews this year?”
I laugh. “They don’t want to talk to me. They want the pretty boys.” I wink at him, and Matthew laughs.
“Two years ago, there was this female reporter who came in and made a beeline for him.” Matthew starts to laugh while I shake my head, thinking of the story he is going to tell. “She was wearing a tight skirt, and I think she even opened a button on her shirt. She walked up to him, and he was already scowling.” He holds his stomach, trying not to laugh. “She started off with a question about the game and then said they call you PM, is there a reason.”
“Oh my God,” Evan says, putting his hand to his mouth in shock. “I mean, it’s not a secret, but …”
Matthew slaps the table, laughing. “He looked at her and said it stand for postmortem. Like this interview.” Now Evan laughs, slapping the table. “Her face dropped, and then every time she came back in the room, she would stay away from him. She transferred the month after.”
“Postmortem,” Evan says between his pants while he laughs. “I mean, they call you Private Mark, but postmortem? Savage.” He gets up now. “I have to go work out. You coming?”
“Yeah, I’m doing weights today,” I tell him, grabbing another bottle of water. I walk to the gym with him, and it’s crowded. “Got to love back-to-work week.” I laugh and go to the treadmill to warm up a bit.
Two hours later, I’m slipping into my track suit and grabbing my phone as I walk out to the garage. I get into the truck and stop at the butcher on my way home. I call Vivienne, and she picks up after two rings. “Hey,” I say when I hear her voice.
“Well, hello there,” she says, her voice going soft.
“I am going to stop at the butcher. Did you want to come over?” I ask her before I get out of the truck.
“I’m making Coq au vin,” she says, and I laugh.
“Is that where you suck my cock with wine?” I ask her, and now she laughs.
“I don’t need wine to suck your cock,” she counters. “Why don’t you come over for dinner?”
“Sure, what can I bring?” I ask her.
“Nothing. I have everything. Just bring yourself,” she tells me.
“When do you want me to come over?” I ask her nervously.
“Whenever you want,” she says softly.
“I’ll be there within the hour. I have to go home and feed Elsa,” I joke with her and hang up. I don’t go home. Instead, I go to Amanda’s store. When I walk in, the bell over the wooden door rings, and the smell of fresh flowers hits me right away. I look around at the pots of flowers everywhere with a clear path to the counter.