Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Her brow furrows. “I’m sorry. That’s so scary. She’s the one who works at the lab in San Diego, right?”
“Yeah, making cancer meds,” I say, before adding in a more pointed tone, “Which, not to be a dick, is kind of more serious and worth risking your health for than hockey. And this is coming from someone who really loves hockey and owes it a lot.”
Her lips part, but then close again. A beat later, her posture sags as the last of the fight goes out of her. “Fine,” she says with a sigh. “I am still a little tired. I’ll rest.” She aims a warning finger at my face. “But you never do anything like this again. Not without my permission. I’m not a child who needs some big brother type to save me from myself.”
I snort. “And I’m not your brother. Thank God. That would make the fact that I woke up with my hard-on pressed between your ass cheeks pretty sick.”
Her lips twitch. “I must have really been sleeping like the dead. Your morning wood is usually pretty hard to miss.”
“You were,” I say with a sniff. “And it’s still hard to miss. It was extra big and hard this morning. And if you hadn’t run yourself ragged, you could have been getting off on it instead of sleeping in. Which brings me to the next stage of this intervention.”
“No,” she says, her eyes narrowing again. “No more intervention. I’m hungry and, as you learned last night, low on supplies. If you aren’t going to let me go to the store, we should order groceries delivered.”
“Already done, they’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Thirty tops,” I say. “And I already have coffee made in the kitchen.” She starts past me, but I shift into her path. “No. No coffee until you’ve heard me out. I deserve that much after coming to the rescue last night, right?”
She folds her arms with clearly forced patience. “Okay. What?”
“You need rest. But you also need…fun.” I pull the folded piece of paper from my back pocket. “And I just happen to have a fun intervention contract drawn up and ready to be signed. Look at that.”
“A contract,” she repeats flatly. “What is this? Fifty Shades of Grey?”
“No, because it’s not a sex thing or a dominance thing.” I unfold the paper with a flourish. “It’s a fun thing, and I went to all the trouble to type it up and print it this morning when I was barely awake. So, you should at least read it before you toss it in the garbage.”
Her brows shoot up again. “On my computer? You helped yourself to access to that, too?”
“Yes. But in my defense, having the same password for everything is not the best cyber-security move. You should really mix it up a bit.”
She props a fist on her hip again. “Stone!”
“Sorry, sorry.” I clear my throat as I lift my free hand, fingers spread in surrender. “Look, the point is, I think you need someone to help you relax and remember there’s more to life than the grind. You need play, down time, some shits and giggles just for the sake of shits and giggles. And I’d like to volunteer as tribute to help out with all that.”
“Tribute. Helping me have fun is going to be like fighting for your life in the arena?” She sounds skeptical, but there’s a hint of amusement in her voice that gives me hope.
“Nah, you’re not that hard a case.” I grin as I ease closer, wafting the contract gently back and forth. “But I know you. Unless you sign on the dotted line, you won’t take your fun seriously. So, I propose that for the next month, until your big interview, you let me help you build some fun, relaxation, and self-care into your schedule. No strings attached, no pressure, just balance and good times with a friend who wants the best for you.” I shrug as I add in what I hope is a casual voice, “And if you’d rather we not fuck around while we’re doing that, that’s fine by me. Your health and happiness are more important than my penis.”
“Don’t be stupid, your penis is one of my main sources of fun,” she says in a matter-of-fact voice that brings me a ridiculous amount of joy. “But what does this ‘fun coaching’ involve, exactly? You know I don’t have a lot of spare time, and I really can’t miss work or shirk my other obligations.”
“Whatever you want it to involve. And totally, I wouldn’t ask you to.” I hand her the contract, careful not to seem too eager. “But the basic idea is that twice a week, in pockets of time pre-approved by you, I get to plan something for us to do that has nothing to do with work, hockey, or productivity. Something purely recreational. You have veto power, of course,” I add hastily.