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)
Yep, unless she has neighbors who also happen to love animals a lot, the one with a wreath on the door made out of every animal print ribbon in existence and proclaiming Welcome! It’s basically a zoo here must be Briar’s.
I knock, my nerves already settling as if they know we’re close to her.
“Hey!” she says, swinging open the door.
She looks gorgeous. Still in my jersey—which does things to me I should probably deny—with her hair down around her shoulders, fresh gloss on her smiling lips, and a sparkle in her blue eyes.
“Hey. Like the wreath.” I flick one of the zebra-print ribbons.
“Thanks. I won it in a raffle at work.” She looks at the wreath fondly. “Only cost me fifty bucks in tickets. And we do not discuss that I could’ve bought the ribbon and made it myself for half that.” She gives me a warning glare, probably thinking it looks threatening, but it’s too cute to actually intimidate anyone. Especially me.
“What I’m hearing is that you donated money to a great cause.”
“Ooh, yeah. I like that,” she says, appreciating my point of view. “Come on in.”
I step immediately into her living room, which is small but cozy, with a couch and a TV on a wood cabinet right next to the door. Beyond that, I can see her kitchen, and there’s a hallway off to the left. Everything is in shades of green with tan and white accents and obviously cared for, with little touches like throw pillows on the furniture and pictures on the walls. It feels . . . alive. Like she and Harley don’t just exist in these walls, they’ve created a home here.
I’m struck with a sense of homesickness.
I grew up like this. With a mother who cared enough to put my crappy art on the fridge, start Crock-Pot dinners in the morning so we’d have a warm meal after practices that always ran late, and made sure I felt loved every day without fail.
Briar is that type of mother too. Harley is a lucky kid.
I really need to call my mom tomorrow.
“Thanks for letting me come over. Tonight was a surreal experience.”
I don’t get a chance to explain because a voice down the hall says, “Dom?” A split second later, a torpedo hits me full force in the chest and a vise wraps around my waist. Damn, even the Devils didn’t hit this hard.
“Hey, kid,” I say, patting Harley on the head. The hug feels like a huge leap forward in our friendship. And also, his hair is sopping wet. “Did you have fun at the game?”
“So much fun!” he informs me at approximately one hundred decibels. “It was awesome! And we won!”
I laugh, nodding. “We did.”
“We?” Briar echoes quietly, giving me a told you so look.
She’s right. There’s no sense in denying that the Blizzard is my team now. I might not like it, or like all of my teammates, but it’s where I’m at, so I might as well roll with it.
“Blizzard Blast!” Harley shouts, mimicking the animation that plays on the jumbotron of the team’s polar bear mascot throwing snowballs. Basically, he’s wildly waving his arms through the air like a windmill.
“Whoa. Alright, say thank you and good night to Dominic, and then it’s bedtime for anyone under ten years old. Whoops! Looks like that’s”—Briar looks around the room dramatically, then points at Harley—“you.”
“Mom!”
She tilts her head, her eyes unyielding.
“Fine. Thank you for the game. Good night.” I hold up a fist for him to bump on his way back toward the hallway, but he pauses and looks back at me. “Can you tuck me in?”
Other than the flip-flop my belly does, I freeze. I have never tucked someone in before. I’m not sure I even know how to do it right.
Briar looks at me questioningly and then starts to say, “Oh, he doesn’t—”
But I interrupt her, not able to disappoint Harley, who’s looking at me hopefully. “Uh, yeah. Sure. I can do that.” I scrub a hand over my jaw, not sure at all. Is there rocking involved? Or books to read? I try to think back to my parents tucking me into bed, but those memories are lost to time and youth.
“Yeah!” Harley grabs my hand, virtually dragging me down the hall.
Harley’s room is navy and gray, with a plaid comforter on his tiny twin-size bed. Then again, he’s not all that large himself. There’s a nightstand and a wall-mounted desk, and those small pieces fill the space completely.
He climbs into bed and I lay the comforter over him, figuring that’s tucked in. “Thanks for coming to the game. I appreciate the friendly faces in the crowd tonight.”
“You’re welcome,” he answers, but as I go to the door, he adds, “Wait! Where are you going? We have to cricket.”