Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
My jaw goes slack. “Why are you in my drawer?”
She doesn’t seem the least bit guilty. She only shrugs. “I had to make sure you took them out of the packing, which you did not. They need to be cleaned, mija. You can’t go from packaging to your panocha.”
God above.
My face burns with embarrassment. “I know that. I don’t need them.”
She arches a brow. “Don’t lie to me. Your panocha gets no action. It probably has bats flying out of it at this point.”
She’s not wrong.
“And yours gets more action than a T.J.Maxx on a Wednesday when new products are put out,” I snap back, and she grins, her eyes lighting up with humor.
“Yes. Come join me on aisle sixty-nine.”
When she snorts at her own awful joke, I roll my eyes.
“I’m good where I am,” I mutter. It’s a lie, but we won’t be getting into my nonexistent love life. “You can take the toys, by the way.”
She doesn’t like that at all. “I got them for you. Maybe if you give yourself an orgasm, you’ll want a man to do it.”
“It isn’t that I don’t want a man to do it, I just don’t have time,” I complain, giving her a look.
This isn’t the first time we’ve had this argument. My life revolves around school, work, and the podcast. When am I supposed to find someone to give me orgasms? After watching my parents love each other so hard, there is no way I don’t want that. I crave it. The constant support, the intimacy, the all-consuming love. I want someone to be obsessed with me, and to get that, I have to put time into finding someone. Not get on Tinder, swipe right, and hook up.
Which is how my peers are doing it. Yeah, not a fan.
She shakes her head. “That’s sad. It’s called self-care. Tickle the bean, Ro. Maybe you wouldn’t be wound so tight.”
I need to change the locks.
“Nay, leave her be. Not everyone wants their panocha compared to a hallway that someone’s tossing a hot dog down.”
Tía throws my mom a wicked look, but no one is really mad here. Well, I’m annoyed. Neither of them spoke of sex toys, guys, or even orgasms when my dad was around, and he always shielded me from their crazy. Now that he’s gone, Nay has moved in with my mom—which worked for me since I got her condo—but I feel like they have nightly meetings over a glass of wine to discuss how to drive me nuts. They smother me with their crazy and love. They want me to put myself out there, but again, I don’t have the time.
I run my dad’s podcast, which takes up forty hours of work a week. During the season, I’ve been announcing the girls’ hockey games, but after the last boys’ announcer retired, I’ll now be doing the boys’ games since I have the highest GPA in my program. I can’t wait since this is what I want. Women’s hockey is still up-and-coming. I feel in my soul it’ll get there, but I want to be where the action is, and that’s men’s hockey.
Since I’m not there yet, I’m getting my master’s, and I’m constantly applying for the next best internship. Though, after today, I may have an in with FanDuel Sports Network South from the great Elli Adler. I usually don’t like to take handouts, but I’m tired of fetching coffee. I want to announce, and if Elli Adler can pull some strings for me to show off who I am, I’m here for it.
So, yeah, no time. I have goals, and while my dad may have believed that finding his person made his game better, that can’t be true now. Not with the guys my age. They are all so self-absorbed, no one is loyal, and most of all, they want me to chase them.
I don’t chase anyone; I attract.
Which is why I’m doing the segment. It’s been six years, and I want to remind myself that my person is out there. Everyone I have contacted to do a segment has been so excited to work with me. I can’t wait to see what the outcome of my study shows. Mom and Nay helped me build a little tally section under the scoreboard from my dad’s old podcast room. He donated a lot of money to his high school in New York, and in return, they gave him the scoreboard from when he played since the money he donated bought a new one. The damn thing is heavy, but between the three of us, we were able to hang it up.
My living room isn’t really what Nay envisioned. She had it in vivid colors with all kinds of furniture, and while the seafoam green on the walls does make the space bright, the room is full of my dad’s old equipment that, I swear, took me a year to get the smell out of. The space has all kinds of products that different hockey companies have sent me to promote. I have a love seat for my guests and then my chair, which is one of those cool ADHD chairs that I can sit in all different kinds of ways. I know it’s distracting to some, but it makes me comfortable and I feel it helps me keep up a quick dialogue with everyone. My mics and sound equipment are set up all over the place in a clean and professional way. The table in the center has snacks that my mom keeps stocked. There is an actual hockey goal below the scoreboard and even a spot where my guests can pick a stick to score a goal. Dad used to defend, but since only my brain is engrossed in hockey, I don’t play my guests. I’d make a fool of myself for sure. No matter the fact that I’ve been on skates since before I could walk, I can’t seem to skate, hold a stick, and shoot.