Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Baby, you’re not a shitty GM.”
“You have to say that shit because you wanna fuck me.”
“I don’t have to say any shit, and technically, I’ve already fucked you hence why you’re wearing those overall shorts to hide your barely growing stomach because you’re not ready to give up your half shirt life yet.” His cocky smirk has me squeezing my thighs together. “What you should’ve said is because I wanna fuck you again. And again. And again. And again until you have to blow the whistle for unsportsmanlike conduct to the shit I’ve done to your beautiful body.”
Holy. Fuck.
Yes, please and thank you.
“Still though. I don’t have to lie to you to bang you, Harlow. That’s actually the opposite way of getting you in the sack. That’s the shit that keeps you from wanting to bone someone at all.”
“And you may have another point on the board for knowing that.”
“Thank you.”
“On a serious note, you need gear of your own. Skates you picked. A stick you prefer for when they borrow you for a little action during practice. Plus, a bucket customized just for you versus the basic bitch black shit you wear now. On top of all those musts, you need better gloves, a cup, sweats, under tees, and of course a few suits.”
His eyes bulge to the size of the room. “What the fuck do I need suits for?!”
“Game days. Even our equipment team wears them for travel. You change after we land and then handle the gear. You have to look professional coming in just like the boys.”
“But-”
“And if you wanna attend award ceremonies or other ass kissing events with me, you need something to wear. As much as I love you in board shorts and throwback tees and Mac Miller style hats, it’s not exactly professional shit.”
The corners of his lips struggle not to kick upward. “You want me around for those things?”
“I wouldn’t mind you on the assist.” This time a full fledge smile is presented, and unfortunately for me, it’s too sweet, too adorable, and too irresistible not to get me grinning too. “Go get dressed, babe.” I fiddle around with the edge of my white crop top t-shirt. “You’ve got ten and then I do that thing where I make you run behind me for three blocks before stopping.”
“Fine. But you can’t change the channel. You just gotta watch the cooking show.”
“Ugh,” my grunt is heavy and hard as I slide onto the actual couch, “fucking why?!”
“We both should have to be miserable for a little bit today. Let’s call it matching penalties.”
His arrogant chuckles convince my own to begin while watching him exit the living room.
I hope he knows I could change the fucking channel if I wanted.
But I won’t.
Only because he spends so much getting into the shit I like.
I should probably make a little more effort to be a better teammate in this avenue. Afterall, he has, and constantly is. I think that’s how dating is supposed to work? I don’t really know. It’s as foreign to me as fucking cooking is. There’s a high probability I won’t figure that shit out…fucking…ever…however, I think I can get the hang of this whole couple shit with a little more practice.
Post a quick change of clothes and stop at the nearest gas station for gas someone forgot to put in the SUV while I was gone, the two of us venture into downtown Dalvegan to the Locker District, the specific area that contains nothing but athletic related business.
Even the bars and restaurants have to be in theme.
The Assist is the higher end hockey gear store that our rookies not only shop at but are gifted a trip to upon their initial contract signing. Those fresh drafted are probably my favorite to see step foot inside. It’s legit kid at Christmas shit.
Which is ironic to me since all I wanted for Christmas growing up was a hockey player.
Asked for one every year from nine—the age I took a different type of interest in those wearing skates—to fourteen when I realized I didn’t need a jolly old dude in a suit or a Hallmark holiday miracle to get one underneath the mistletoe.
I just needed tits.
And the little pair I got I wasn’t afraid to use.
Upon entering the store which is mirrored after a basic barn vibe with light blue and white colors to give a neutral appeal, I announce, “So, we have an account here, meaning if you ever need anything else from here, it’s covered. Just come in. Show them your badge. They’ll put it on the monthly bill.”
“Monthly bill?” Brendan croaks in shock.
“Yeah, hockey’s expensive,” I mutter more to myself than him as we’re approached by one of the salesgirls, I’m more familiar with due to her obsession with trying to find a callup to attach her claws to.