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)
Shea Adler: Wow, I think your introduction was way better than mine.
Elli Adler: The heels part really drove it home.
Ambrosia Mercer: I’m glad you liked that. I had that thought up before your other accomplishments.
Laughter.
Shea Ader: Thank you for having us. I have to say, when I did this with your dad, the room was dank, smelled like beer, and he wasn’t nearly as welcoming.
Elli Adler: I was thinking the same thing.
Ambrosia Mercer: Thank you. I wanted a livelier space but still hockey.
Elli Adler: You achieved it.
Shea Adler: I love the goal and the snacks.
Ambrosia Mercer: That means a lot! Thank you. Now, when my dad ran this podcast, he only brought on the player, but I am moving in a new direction. As everyone knows, we lost Rowe Mercer, my amazing dad, great husband, and fantastic hockey player turned podcaster, six years ago.
Shea Adler: Wow, six years. It seems like yesterday. I can still feel him crushing me into the boards.
Ambrosia Mercer: He was a bruiser, for sure.
Elli Adler: But a kind man off the ice.
Ambrosia Mercer: The best.
Shea Adler: He’d be proud of you, Ro.
Elli Adler: So proud.
Ambrosia Mercer: Stop, you’re making me emotional.
Laughter.
Ambrosia Mercer: I have kept The Rowe Report true to the script my dad had. For one thousand episodes, I carried on his name. But now that I’m in my final year to get my master’s in sports communication, I want to try my own ideas. My own script, but still keep my dad’s memory alive.
Elli Adler: I love that, and congratulations!
Ambrosia Mercer: Thank you. Now, I know my listeners are worried that I could mess up this podcast, but I won’t. You’ll still get the full story of greatness from my guests, and I’ll always be on top of all the hockey news, but I’ve decided that I want to do a segment where we focus on the player outside of his sport.
Shea Adler: I’m sure I speak for your listeners when I say I’m intrigued.
Ambrosia Mercer: As you should be. With the rise of Sports Romance novels, I feel we can bring more women to the sport of hockey. The best way is with little looks at real love. You see, my dad said that he felt like his game totally changed when he met my mom. It gave him a reason to show out and impress her, but mostly, it made him push to be better so that she could proudly say she was married to the best hockey player ever. When he retired, she was the first person he thanked. I love the love my parents had, and I want to know if it’s true. So, tell me, Shea, did finding your person change your game?
Shea Adler looks at his wife, brings up her hand that he has been holding the whole time before kissing her knuckles.
Shea Adler: Without a doubt.
“Mija! Mija!”
How I can hear my tía over my headphones as I edit my session from this morning is beyond me. Or is it? She’s loud as hell even when she whispers. I push my headphones off, grimacing when they get caught in my curls, before I gather my hair and tie it up.
“Yes, Tía?”
My tía, Naylia, pops her head out of my room, and I make a face. Her hair, like mine, is a combination of dark and light brown wild curls. It’s up in the same bun I have but held back by a purple bandanna. Her dark brown eyes are framed in dark lashes and have wrinkles from her laughing like a hyena her whole thirty-nine years. Her lips are plump, her cheekbones high, and yeah, my aunt is a baddie. She has a huge ass, thick thighs, and the tiniest little waist. She can pull a dad, a brother, and a son with no issue at all.
My aunt is a tiny bit of a cougar. A proud one, at that.
She adjusts her apron that I know my mom has on too, but she’s in the kitchen cleaning. Why they insist on coming over and cleaning after a recording session will never make sense. I am twenty-four years old; I can clean my own place. I understand that this is Naylia’s condo, and when I’m ready to move out, she’ll sell, but I’m not a slob. I clean up after myself just fine, but it’s as if they can’t accept that. Or believe that I’m old enough to take care of myself. Sometimes I feel like since they don’t have my dad to fuss over, they’ve moved all their energy over to me.
It’s annoying as hell.
“Tía, why are you in my room? No one went in there,” I ask, confused, but she waves me off.
She blows out an exaggerated sigh. Her voice is full of mirth and a spicy Spanish lilt as she insists, “Still needs to be cleaned. But why are all the toys I got you still in the packaging?”