Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I pause for dramatic effect, smoothing Buttermilk’s ears like I’m trying to stay emotionally grounded.
“And the kicker? This all happened before dessert. I didn’t even get to eat my crème brûlée. Which feels criminal.”
Another beat. Then I lean in.
“Here’s what I’m thinking… maybe I’ve been aiming too high. Looking for a unicorn when I should be out here searching for, like… one decent man who knows how to shut up about bacteria and doesn’t use the phrase ‘my ex and I’ like it’s punctuation.”
I sigh dramatically. “I’ve dated lawyers, doctors and bankers. I’m talking men who are successful and seem to be what a woman wants. But… it’s not panning out for me. Maybe it’s time for an experiment.”
I square my shoulders, voice stronger and chin lifted in abject defiance of the dating game. “Thirty days of dating to find a normal guy. Someone… refreshingly average like me, apparently. He doesn’t have to be perfect. He just has to not make me want to crawl out a restaurant’s bathroom window. And I’m guessing that this platform is big enough to open my dating pool. So, I’m appealing to all you besties… help a girl out. Let’s see if he exists.”
I stop the recording and hit post. No edits. No filters. No plan. And certainly no changing my mind. Now that it’s out there, I’m committed to following through.
I slouch into the cushions with Buttermilk stretching against my stomach, warm and heavy, like an annoyed hot water bottle.
“You think that’ll do it?” I ask him, stroking his soft fur.
He yawns, unimpressed, and closes his eyes again. Typical.
I close mine too and pretend none of it matters.
Even though it does.
So much more than I’d like to admit.
I want to find my happily ever after but it’s proving to be almost impossible, and I’m not sure why.
CHAPTER 3
Lucky
Some guys get quiet before a game.
I get louder.
“Ten bucks says Rafferty falls flat on his ass in warm-ups again,” I chirp, flicking tape off my shin guard.
“Ten bucks says you flub another wide-open one-timer,” Rafferty fires back without looking up from his skates.
“Can’t flub what I bury top shelf,” I reply smoothly, snapping on my helmet.
Atlas laughs from across the room. “Please don’t start this shit again.”
“I’m just saying…” I shrug and grab my stick. “Confidence is a game-day strategy. I bring swagger. You bring… existential dread.”
“Swagger and zero common sense,” Atlas mutters, following me toward the tunnel.
The music pulses louder as we line up, the crowd’s roar bleeding through the concrete. Lights flicker purple and white. The energy is fuel, pure adrenaline.
We hit the ice as the announcer rallies the crowd in a big booming voice. I circle the net, tap gloves with Drake who’s starting in goal, and skate to the bench, every muscle primed, tuned, humming.
This is my space. My rhythm. My clarity.
It’s far away from TikTok and the goofy persona I’ve got going on there. While I love hamming it up to the world, being on the ice is what I live and breathe for.
Out here, I’m not trying to be anything. Not the funny guy. Not the one seeking the social media spotlight. I’m just Lucky Branson, left winger for the Pittsburgh Titans, and I came to win.
We open strong and the first period flies by—tight puck movement, quick transitions. I set up a beauty of a goal that my center, Anders Blom, one-times so hard the goalie’s water bottle flips off the net.
The arena goes wild, and our line converges on the Swedish phenom. I tap my stick against his calf and rub his helmet. “That was fire.”
Second period, I get clipped behind the play. Nothing dirty, but enough to rattle my teeth. I skate it off, jawing at the ref as I pass, because it wouldn’t be a Lucky shift without a little flair.
By the third, the score’s tied 2–2 and the place is buzzing. I dig in hard, full sprint along the boards, flip a saucer pass over a defenseman’s stick and hit Anders again, tape-to-tape. He scores.
We converge with the rest of our line, slapping ass and taking names.
It doesn’t matter to me that I didn’t score the goal. I make things happen and fuck if that doesn’t feel just as good. That puck hits the back of the net, and the crowd erupts and a surge of elation floods me harder than if I’d put it in myself. Another rowdy celebration in front of Ottawa’s net. The guys pile in around us, gloves tapping helmets, voices shouting praise. Assists never get old, not to me. Setting up a teammate, seeing their grin widen as they raise their arms in triumph, that’s a different kind of rush. Goals are great, but there’s something electric about being the playmaker, knowing you’re the spark behind someone else’s glory.
We leisurely skate back to the bench as there’s a TV time-out and then the first line is back on. The puck drops for the face-off, and Penn wins it cleanly, snapping it back toward King. In a smooth, practiced motion, King shifts it over to Bain, who quickly sends it ahead to Stone. The crowd noise intensifies as they sense something about to happen.