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)
Outside of his dick riding crew, he’s not well liked.
By any of his team.
“Let’s go den,” Page villainously grins, motioning his friends with a small finger wave.
“Should we bet?” McVie inquires. “Losing team buys a round after we leave?”
“Can’t,” Eeyore announces during our trek to the track. “Gotta go get my little girl. I was lucky my mom could take off this morning to watch her for this shit.”
“Still no luck finding a nanny?” McVie investigates, genuine concern in his voice.
“Nope,” the six-foot five defenseman defeatedly grunts. “And the shit is only getting fucking harder.”
“I’ll ask Kayla again. See if she knows anyone.”
“Appreciate it, McVie.”
“Gonna be a no for me, too,” Peck cautiously declares. “Gotta catch a flight back to Vlasta.”
“And I gotta get home to Harlow.”
That proclamation receives a side eyed glare from Page yet a small, backhanded pop on the arm from Tanner “Snowman” Frosky. “You really fucked the GM?”
“Fucked. Married. And knocked up the GM.”
Not quite in that order though.
“She’s such a fucking rocket, Bricks,” Snowman groans out on another hit.
“I don’t know if you should say that about your GM,” Peck quietly objects.
“Why not?” Somerfield pokes back as we arrive to the empty course. “That’s some true shit.” Our attention all cuts his direction. “Some of the truest fucking shit. Hennington is a fucking rocket.”
“My fucking rocket,” I cockily remind on the flash of my wedding ring. “Never forget that shit, boys.”
“Bet!” Page barks out in obvious irritation. “What are we bettin’, boys?”
“Training camp humiliation,” McVie suggests again, this time more certain of his idea. “Losers show up early to training camp in one of the ice girls outfits to welcome the team.”
The hiss out of me is unfortunately heard by Page. “Perfect.” His gaze swings to those on my side. “Youse in?”
“Fuck yeah,” Snowman enthusiastically claims. “Bet.”
Eeyore is a little less excited yet agrees. “Bet.”
“Uh…” Peck does his best to clear away his uneasiness, “Bet?”
“Bet,” I state firmly, sealing my team’s terms to the agreement.
Page’s devious chortles are followed by him along with the other players compliance.
Well.
No matter which way this shit goes I can’t be accused of not being a fucking team player.
The tiny, meek, probably barely over eighteen girl in charge of the course does her best to explain what’s expected of us before we’re allowed to huddle up to create a game plan. Eeyore to no surprise takes the lead—further proving Blanc’s decision to make him captain this season is a wise one—and lays out our roles. Peck is to go first. Between his age and stamina, he has the highest chance of getting us ahead allowing for any other shortcoming that may magically occur. Eeyore will go next followed by Snowman who if necessary, can over agile his ass into shaving off time. I’m to go last since I’m athletically the most unknown stats wise, leaving me the most unpredictable variant of the situation.
Peck and McVie climb the short ladder to prepare and brace themselves for the whistle.
Like Eeyore predicted, Peck is first off the line with incredible speed.
Precision.
In spite of the fact that I know his feet are touching the ground, he’s gliding so fast I swear he’s fucking floating.
The instant he finishes the short obstacle span, Eeyore gets in motion, body already prepped to take his first step, just like he would be if changing lines on the ice. His completion time while not nearly as impressive as the player ten years younger than him, it’s still remarkable. He’s less of a flyer and more a bulldozer that shit seems to just jump out of the way for. Snowman slides onto the course next keeping the same momentum. He moves through the complicated space in what I swear is a single breath showcasing that I truly am the weakest link in this crew.
Again.
It’s not like I’m lazy or not athletic.
Fuck, since being married to Harlow, I don’t really have a choice in that department even if I wanted to. The chick needs physical workouts to stay sane. They give her a self confidence boost. Mood boost. Attitude adjustment. Everything those stupid studies are always rambling exercise being good for is proven with my wife.
Huh.
Come to think about it.
That shit goes for me too.
I didn’t used to get happier following a workout sesh but after a round or two of disc golf or swimming laps, I undeniably do.
Kind of like she does post ping pong, which is basically beer pong without the beer to her.
A little tidbit she tells me every time we play.
My foot takes its first step onto the course, and I immediately slip backwards on the wobbly step.
Familiar laughter escapes Page who is still waiting for Somerfield to finish—probably convinced he has no reason to fucking worry—yet claps of encouragement suddenly overpower the sound. “Let’s go, Bricks! You got this!”