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)
“Not sure I give a fuck what they think,” I reply a bit too honestly. I look over my shoulder at Anderson, Sabine, and Pacholek, who are watching me with eager grins on their stupid faces. “Though I am curious about what you think.”
“Sure. I’ve heard that before,” Briar says, turning her whole body back to the bar. I can feel the dismissal in the move. “Nice meeting you, Dominic.”
My jaw tightens. I hate the way she says my name like she’s already written me off. No one’s ever written me off that easily, and I’m not sure I’m going to let her either.
“You’ll remember me, even if you don’t want to. My friends call me Dom.”
“Dominic,” she repeats emphatically, not even looking my way.
Never one to stay somewhere I’m not wanted, I pick up my beer and return to Tweedlefuck, Tweedlefucker, and Tweedlefuckest. They laugh and grin as they console me. “Don’t worry about it. Briar was never gonna give you the time of day.”
I don’t like her name on Anderson’s lips. It pisses me off for some reason I can’t explain. Except . . . “How did you know her name?”
They laugh harder. “That’s Coach Boothe’s daughter.”
These motherfuckers. They set me up. “You sent me over to talk to Coach’s daughter with zero warning? Real great welcome wagon you’ve got here. Fuck all of you.”
They try to sober up, mostly unsuccessfully, but Sabine manages to share, “No worries, man. We knew you weren’t gonna get anywhere with her. She’s anti-man, anti-player, and basically anti–anyone who isn’t her son. Truth be told, I don’t think she even likes Coach.”
“You still set me up,” I reiterate. “That’s some bullshit.” Even as I argue with them, I file away the information about Briar . . . no, about Coach’s daughter, I correct as I scold myself for getting caught in their tomfuckery.
“Just a little welcome-to-the-team fun. No harm, no foul,” Pacholek claims, seeming slightly more apologetic than his brethren. “Half of us have been through the same.”
I grit my teeth, not liking it but also well aware that guys do that sort of thing. Or at least some do. Apparently, the Blizzard being the some.
“She said something about the team’s reputation? What’s that about?”
The three guys look from one to another, but it’s Anderson that answers. “You don’t know?”
I shake my head. “Would I be asking if I did? I know what I saw on tape, and what I saw on the ice against you assholes, but I get the feeling that’s not what she meant.”
Anderson looks over both shoulders—which is never a good sign—and lowers his voice as he says, “Wanna know the one thing the Blizzard doesn’t have that all the other teams in the league do?” I stare at him, the answer obvious—of course I want to know, so spill it. “A WAG coordinator.”
I glance at Sabine and Pacholek in confusion, hoping they understand what the hell Anderson is talking about, but they don’t offer up any insight.
A WAG coordinator is the unlucky intern who shows up with stars in their eyes, thinking they’re going to get a behind-the-scenes look at sports for whatever their degree is in, but gets assigned to dealing with the players’ wives, girlfriends, and families. It’s an often thankless job—making sure they have parking passes, travel arrangements, security escorts, and more, and all for the big result of zero gratitude. Just an asterisked line item on their résumé they’re supposed to be grateful for.
“Who takes care of the WAGs then?” I ask. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering my lazy reception by the team.
“We don’t have any,” Anderson says. “Kipson’s wife was the closest thing anyone had, and now she’s gone. Thank fuck.” He lifts his eyes to the ceiling like that’s an answered prayer. “Right now every man on the Blizzard is single and unattached.”
“Clean house, baby!” Sabine brags, holding up his hand for a high five that Anderson returns, both of them grinning.
Pacholek takes pity on me and explains, “Our Blizzard motto is: ‘Women are a distraction. Keep your focus on the ice.’”
I look at the crowd of players, some of whom have women at their sides . . . or on their laps, I realize, but it’s clear that they’re all Miss Right Now rather than Miss Right. Well, ain’t that friendly. “You don’t date?” I ask, wanting to clarify exactly what they’re saying. After all, we’re all hockey players, not dating experts.
“Flowers and dinners? Nah. I don’t have time for that,” Anderson says with a laugh, as though the very idea is preposterous. “I stick with dicking around. Speaking of . . .” He trails off as he steps away, toward a passing woman with a margarita in her hand and a tight skirt around her hips.
Sabine basically does the same, a redhead instead of Anderson’s brunette, leaving me alone with Pacholek.