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)
It’ll have to be enough. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Are you a witch?”
Seeing Dominic’s name—well, technically it’s still Hockey Coach—pop up on my phone screen already had me smiling. His teasing words add a bit of giddiness to the warmth blooming in my chest. I’m pretty sure I know why he’s calling. Or at least I think I do.
I smile, twisting and wiggling in delight as I stir tonight’s gourmet dinner of spaghetti and meat sauce. “Mayyyybe,” I singsong.
“Coach called me and a bunch of other guys into his office today. I thought I was going to get shipped off to Canada. Or cussed out, at a minimum. But do you know what he said?”
A laugh pops out. “Good job?” I guess. Dominic makes a nuh-uh sound. “Thank you?” Not it either. “You’re all fired?” Okay, that one might actually happen so I don’t laugh too hard at that possibility.
“It seems there’s a very special appearance he wants us to make. Guess where?”
“Hmm, I’m sure I have no idea,” I tease.
“Your zoo, you damn witch,” Dominic exclaims, making it sound like the highest praise. Raising his voice into a fair estimation of a truck stop diner waitress, he says, “Ding! One team-building exercise, coming right up.” Then he laughs, sounding genuinely light and happy. “Thank you.”
I preen, knowing he can’t see me. Probably because he can’t see the effect his words have on me. I’m glad to be able to help him, and it will actually help the zoo too.
“So you’re all coming?”
“Apparently,” he laughs. “Anderson and Kipson were pretty pissed off about it. Coach didn’t give them a choice, though. Told Kipson to quit moping and told Anderson that he could stand to give his dick the day off and press some palms to earn some money and goodwill for his girl.”
His girl? Me?
The smile stealing across my face now is for an entirely different reason. Surprisingly, it’s for my father. I asked for this favor because of Dominic, never dreaming it might actually improve things between me and Dad. But maybe this team-building thing can build more than one team.
“No mention of union bargaining agreements?” I ask, and Dom laughs.
“No, why?”
“No reason. Thanks, Dominic.”
Chapter 13
Dominic
I’m not surprised. Well, not about who didn’t show up to my open invitation for a pre–opening game dinner at Big Boy Bowls. But maybe about who did—Mike Kipson.
He looks from me to Rodney to Tomville and then to the door behind him. He’s thinking of bailing. It’s written in every tense muscle, his downturned mouth, and the way he’s fidgeting with the car keys that are still in his hand.
Thankfully, that’s the moment Pacholek opens the door behind him, boxing him in. “Hey, fellas! We eating or not?”
“You guys know what to do,” I tell Rodney and Tomville. They instantly queue up to order, remembering the advice I gave them last time.
“You want your usual?” Rodney calls back to me and I nod.
Kipson looks at me questioningly.
“We went out to eat during training camp. Figured we were all new in town and might as well get to know each other.”
His brow furrows as he stares at me. “You just invited them out?” I nod. “And invited everyone out tonight?”
“You’re buying your own,” I clarify with a shit-eating grin. “This ain’t a date and I’m no gentleman.”
“Fuck off,” he growls. But as he pushes past me to get in line, he’s fighting a teeny-tiny hint of a smile. He’d disagree, but I see it . . . right there at the corners of his mouth. They’re approximately 3 percent less frowny than they were when he came in.
“You like playing with fire?” Pacholek asks wonderingly, watching the interaction between me and Kipson.
“Only thing I like better is playing with my dick,” I joke. More seriously, I tell him, “Glad you came, man,” as I clap him on the back and let him go in front of me in line.
We get our food and find a table, no small feat for five large-framed athletes. And we dig in. I even steal a bite of Pacholek’s carnitas, grinning at him when he tries to stab my hand, but he snaps the tines on his plastic fork before breaking my skin.
“I . . . am . . . Iron Man,” I taunt before doing the classic guitar riff.
Pacholek rolls his eyes. “I literally got you, it’s just a weak-ass fork,” he complains, staring at the new gap in the utensil.
“I gotchu.” I hop up, grab him a new one, and make a quick stop at the register to ask for a side of the carnitas for the table. As I sit back down, I groan, “That shit’s delicious.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I got it,” Pacholek quips.
He quits complaining when a worker drops off a bowl with a big scoop of guacamole along with the pork, definitely more than a side, on our table. “Truce?”