Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
An hour and one beer later, I’ve avoided Kipson in favor of getting to know some of the other guys. Mostly because I figure they can give me a bit of recon insight, plus I do have to play with them this season.
But mostly what I’ve learned is that these guys are annoying as hell. On the Hawks, we had a guy we called Brody, not because it was his name but because he was such a bro, like the most stereotypical frat dude you’ve ever met. The rest of us were professional athletes, and conducted ourselves that way.
The entirety of the Blizzard team seems to be cut from the Brody cloth, however, which is to say immature, annoying, and obnoxious.
“Hey, Dom, pick three . . . fuck, marry, kill,” Anderson tells me. He raises his beer to the bar at large, which is filled with people coming in for a quick after-work drink or to meet friends. Or strangers.
I furrow my brow and shake my head. “I don’t do that sort of juvenile bullshit.”
Sabine, a left winger, and Pacholek, a center forward, join in with Anderson’s teasing. “Come on, it’s just for fun. Look around.” Anderson points at a few women scattered throughout the bar.
I have half a mind to point at Tweedlefuck (Sabine) and Tweedlefucker (Pacholek) as at least two of the three options just to get them to shut up. But in the end, I point at two women. “Fuck. Marry.” Then I point a finger gun to my temple. “Kill.”
They laugh, but honestly, kill me now sounds about right. How did I go from dinners with my best friend and sister to this? How did I end up traded from a winning team to this group of assholes?
“Go talk to her. See if you can score. Work that Dominic Lee magic we’ve all heard about,” Sabine taunts, pointing at the woman I deemed fuckable.
Three words, and I talked myself into a corner. I have less than zero interest in women right now. What does interest me is getting the hell away from these bozos for a minute, so I swallow my beer and head over to the bar under the guise of getting another one.
“Draft, please,” I tell the bartender, pretending to ignore the beautiful blonde perched on a barstool two feet away. Although to be honest, it’s hard to ignore her.
She’s stunning, in skintight jeans, a simple white tank top, and tan boots with a floral design on the sides. Her eyes are bright as she looks around, but there’s something about her that makes her seem uncomfortable, like this isn’t her scene. Whether that’s the bar or its occupants tonight, I don’t know.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hello.” Her tone is friendly, but the quick return of her attention to the room is not.
I scoot a little closer. “I’m Dominic.”
She drags her eyes back to mine, humor in their blue depths now. “Dominic Lee, All-Star left defenseman for the Hawks last season, now for the Blizzard. Led all defensemen in the league in points last season with”—she pauses, her eyes slipping closed as she thinks—“ninety points.” She opens her eyes, pinning me with a triumphant look as her lips slowly tilt up. “Not bad for a defenseman.”
“Ninety-two actually,” I correct with a smile. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage . . .” I trail off, waiting for her to fill in her name.
“Briar.”
“Like a briar patch?”
She rolls her eyes like she’s heard that at least a million times in her life. “My mom said I was a thorn in her ass from the moment I was conceived.”
“You don’t seem that prickly to me,” I say, giving her a once-over.
“You don’t know me well enough to make that assumption.” Flipping her hair over her shoulder haughtily, she adds, “Nor will you.”
“Fair enough,” I say with a shrug, taking a sip of the fresh beer the bartender set in front of me. “You’re right. Maybe you’re a bitch. What do I know?”
Her mouth drops open, a little “uh” of shock escaping unbidden as she returns her full attention to me. I grin at her reaction. This woman doesn’t have a bitchy bone in her body. In fact, I’m pretty sure the yellow beaded bracelet on her wrist says “good vibes only.”
“Obviously not as much as you think if you’re over here flirting with me,” she murmurs as a hint of confusion flashes through her eyes, gone so fast I would’ve missed it if I wasn’t watching her as closely as I am. But as though she’s remembered herself, she straightens her back and squares her shoulders. “Especially given everyone in this place knows the team’s reputation.”
“Not the champs? Which is better known as the league losers?” I suggest helpfully.
I can sense the laughter she’s trying to suppress, but what she says is, “I don’t think the other players would take too kindly to that label.”