Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
His Doctenn accent makes that sound like a fact rather than an opinion.
I like that.
We’re talkin’ from one bud to another, not the way broadskies literally climb fences to touch his stick.
I don’t swipe that way.
And honestly don’t care if any of my teammates do.
And you know what?
I think at least one does.
But it ain’t my job to let the world know that.
He will when he’s ready.
If he ever is.
We may be welcomin’ and acceptin’ out here in Dalvegan, but the sport as a whole has a shit ton of work to do.
“Geographical or cultural?” curiously inquires the female whose fingers are still folded with mine.
“He can’t spell either of us those,” Hoss teasingly cringes, “let alone define them.”
“I am not nearly as unintelligent as Ducky: Warrior Princess,” his blond head casually tips in our old media coordinator’s direction, “would like you to believe.”
“My bikini top is not that gold, Hamster Boy.”
“You look like you raided her wardrobe on set between takes.”
Hoss’s jaw drops in outrage.
“However, I must admit your tits look infinitely better than hers did.”
“Gram worthy all day,” thoughtlessly compliments my baby brother on a slow head nod.
“Bronskie!” Snowman warmly greets prior to grabbing a fist full of his shirt. “Cool down.” One effortless tug sends him flying over the luxurious pool’s edge into the water, making a very large, attention-grabbing splash. “And keep your eyes off my Slayer, Pee-Wee.”
Laughter immediately escapes me along with him yet his fiancée gripes, “What if his cell was in his pocket, genius?”
“Wasn’t,” I casually reassure. “Had him leave it at homeskies.”
“A teen without his phone?” playfully ponders Frosky’s other half. “Is he gonna die?”
All of a sudden, Bronny pops his frame back up and wildly shakes his head, “Woooooo!”
“Seems alright to me,” chortles our highest scoring player on a casual smirk.
Hoss exhibits no hesitation in shoving him over to join my sibling at the same time she declares, “You will be too.” Upon the splash, she cordially extends her hand towards my own Slayer. “Arden Hoss, but the boys usually just call me Hoss.”
“Gillian,” their palms clasp together and shake, “and most people call me Gilly outside the office.”
The second their touch splits, her head cocks to one side in obvious curiosity. “You look so familiar.” Sounds of Snowman resurfacing threatens to summon my attention elsewhere. “You a season ticketholder?”
I brace myself for the inevitable whistle on the play I know is coming as Gilly frees a hiccup that delays her response. “No.”
“Foundation volunteer?”
“No.”
“Friend of one of the boys?”
Another hiccup becomes heard.
“Actually, you kinda remind me of-”
“That’s a great shot,” gushes Romella Pascual, Hoss’s replacement due to her recent promotion, from beside Perdita Lumet, our lead inhouse photographer. “Chicks are gonna love seeing Snowman soaking wet like that.”
“She’s not wrong,” Hoss casually agrees. “I see the thirsty twat comments from broadskies on the reggie.”
“And the push into the water was top cheddar,” Pascual praises upon them closing their distance.
“Got that too,” Lumet assures prior to squatting down to snap a few more shots of Snowman wrestling with my little brother. “This is what I’m here to capture.” She gives her dirty blonde hair a good push out of her face and resumes clicking. “I want everyone loose and casual and fun and relaxed like I’m invisible, just like they do at the games.”
“Lummy, you’re the only one here dressed like you just left an Alice in Wonderland themed tea party,” chirps Hoss with a crooked smirk. “You’re impossible to fucking ignore.”
She sharply cuts the camera upward and snaps a pic. “Try.”
Hoss flashes the woman her middle finger sparking warm giggles to freely leave Gilly once more, the sound settling my heart that’s been repeatedly skipping beats like a new DJ scratching his first record.
The mental reference easily reminds me of something I need to do, which prompts me to back away towards the booth that’s set up beside the tented arrangements. “Y’all excuse us. I need to see a man about a microphone.”
“Isn’t it a horse?” Pascual ponders in confusion.
“Yeah, but it’s Tendy,” Hoss’s offhanded dismissal precedes me spinning on my heels. “Just go with it. Goalies are weird.”
Once we’re out of their earshot, Gilly quietly inquires, “Does that not bother you?”
Determination to reach my destination doesn’t deter. “What?”
“That phrase.” She waits until my stare finds hers. “The fact that everyone thinks you’re weird.”
“I am weird.” Her mouth twitches in obvious objection pushing me to grin wider during my defending. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing, Gillybean.” A small bounce of my shoulders is wedged between statements. “I essentially get paid to wear a dog bite trainer suit in eighteen-degree temperatures while people shoot rubber circles at me that are going on average ninety miles per hour. Not sure I’d call that normal.” Light laughs escape us both. “Definitely not sane.” Additional snickers fuse between us. “The thing is…everyone is entitled to think what they wanna think.” Another innocent shrug is executed. “And I’m entitled not to care unless I want to.”