Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“You okay, man?” Lovett asks as we take the bench.
“Fucking embarrassing is what I am,” I grouse.
Chase is out there making great passes, and I’m falling over my own thoughts.
“It’s all right. We all have bad games.” He taps his stick against the boards.
“Yeah.” What else can I say? It’s not a bad game, it’s a bad season. If I keep it up, all my hopes and dreams will be flushed down the toilet along with my pride. And my girlfriend is here, watching me shit the bed. Fake girlfriend. Whether it goes beyond the title is irrelevant. Everyone outside of our friend group believes the lie.
We lose the game. And it feels like my fault. It doesn’t matter how many of my teammates tell me they were on the ice too when Guelph scored, if I hadn’t fumbled the puck, if I hadn’t tripped, hell, if I’d been on the bench, Guelph wouldn’t have scored. At least the scouts weren’t here tonight to watch me fuck my team over.
The mood in the locker room is somber post-game, and Coach comes in and gives us one of his you can play cleaner, you’re a better team than this, and we’ll turn this around next week when we play London speeches.
Gage decides we need to have people over so we can drown our sorrows in bad decisions and booze. I’m not in much of a party mood, but anything is better than stewing in my own anxiety for the rest of the night.
Which is how we end up sitting in our living room, playing a drinking game. It’s not the worst since Fee is sitting next to me, smelling fantastic, wearing a Tilton hockey shirt.
Someone came up with a brilliant idea to play I Drink and I Know Things, which always leads to hangovers for Gage, because he’s usually terrible at random trivia.
It’s currently Chase’s turn.
I lean in close to Fee, inhaling her fruity shampoo as I whisper, “He’ll pull out a hockey stat.”
She smirks. “No doubt.”
“I drink and I know the player who holds the single game point record in the pro league,” Chase says.
Every guy and half the girls shout out the answer at the same time.
“It’s my turn. I got that first,” Gage declares.
Everyone lets him have it since he rarely wins a round. Plus, he’s pretty hammered and there’s a solid chance he’ll pass out soon, while sitting in the lounge chair holding a mostly full beer.
“I drink and I know the number of nerve endings in the clitoris!” Gage shouts.
“Ten thousand two hundred eighty-one!” Cammie and Chase both shout the number in unison.
“Nerve fibers, though,” Fee adds. “Nerve endings are over eight thousand.”
“With a range of nine thousand eight hundred to just over eleven thousand, depending on the clit,” Enid chimes in.
Cammie, Enid, and Fee all hop to their feet, converging in the center of the room, and high-five before dropping back into their chairs.
Gage nods his approval. “Of course you all know the answer to this.”
“I guess that’s why it’s called the hot button,” I whisper to Fee when she returns to the couch and drops down beside me. I’ve never been more grateful for the shotty springs that force her to slide closer.
She pats my thigh. “And the reason we like it when that particular body part gets a lot of attention from our partner.”
Is that a hint? Am I reading into things? Would Fee want me to pay special attention to her sensitive, sweet parts? I wet my bottom lip, mouth suddenly dry at the image of Fee, lying on my bed, me stretched out beside her, hand slipping into the waistband of her jeans.
Her gaze drops to my mouth, then bounces back up.
We’re both busy staring at each other, so we miss the next question and have to drink.
“I need a refill.” Chase holds up his empty beer.
“I need a bathroom break,” Fee announces.
I stand and hold out a hand, helping her to her feet, mostly just so I have a reason to touch her. “Want me to grab you something to drink?”
“Water would be smart.” She winks.
“On it.”
Chase and I pass a group of girls, one of whom asked me last week if I had a date to the hockey gala, on the way to the kitchen.
“Are they even really together?” one girl asks in a not-quite whisper.
“I’ve never seen him kiss her,” another says.
“And she’s not even wearing his hoodie.”
“People get banned from parties over his hoodies,” the first girl adds.
I’m irritated that this is a conversation in my own freaking house, and that people are questioning the legitimacy of my relationship with Fee. Does everyone think we’re as fake as we’re supposed to be?
“Give her your hoodie and people will stop asking questions,” Chase mutters once we’re in the kitchen.