Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“Still sucks.”
But he heard me. The Hawks have a real shot this season, better than any other in their recent history, largely in thanks to the great team they’ve built together. And I hope they win the Cup, truly I do. But tonight is game one of the playoffs, four grueling series to the end, and if Griffin puts too much pressure on himself from the jump, he will crash out. Mentally, if not physically.
And hockey is more mental than one would think, even for the team enforcer.
“Thanks. I think I’m gonna head out before you get dressed. I hate that skirt and don’t want to get pissed off before the game.” He stands, grabbing his wallet and keys from the nightstand.
But I stop him. “You hate my uniform?”
He looks darkly at said uniform, which is hanging off my chair, then at my legs. “It’s too damn short. That thing has taunted me for years, Penny.”
I press my lips together, fighting to hide my smile. “Hold on one second. Don’t leave yet.” I grab my uniform and disappear into the bathroom for one minute, pulling it on the way I have countless times before.
When I strut back into my bedroom, Griffin has his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set. “Hate that thing,” he spits out.
“Because you think my ass is hanging out or I’m gonna have a lip slip?” I guess, and he dips his chin, now staring at the skirt like it’s personally offended him. “Look,” I say, lifting the skirt up to reveal the tiny shorts underneath. “And my legs are covered in tights.”
That grabs his attention, and he zeroes in on my legs, looking doubtful.
Laughing, I stick my hand down my skirt to my thigh, showing him that the leg portion that sticks out beneath the skirt isn’t opaque. It’s flesh-toned leggings that definitely don’t show my ass. “If our legs were bare, we’d freeze in the arena. It’s not pond hockey, for sure, but it’s still a fuck ton of ice sucking up all the heat in the building.”
He touches the fabric. “I have studied—and I do mean studied—you in this skirt, and never once realized it wasn’t your bare legs. It’s like sorcery.”
“The magic of women’s hosiery,” I say, spreading my hands through the air like a rainbow. “The more you know.”
And just like that, Grump-a-potomas Griffin smiles.
“See, I am a good pep talker,” I preen, poking his cheek. “Now, get out there and defend that goal, beat some guys up—preferably not a teammate—and make the Oil Riggers your bitch like the monster you are, Honey.” I purposefully use his hockey nickname, getting him into the right mental headspace for tonight. He’s going to do great, though. I have no doubt.
He nods.
“Would it help at all if I promise a victory blow job, with me wearing the skirt that’s apparently always driven you crazy?”
I can’t help but giggle a little at that. How did I never know? I’m not sure, but I truly had no idea. For years, I was completely oblivious. But now? It’s as obvious as the sun in the sky—big, blinding, and hotter than fire. That’s Griffin’s love for me, and mine for him.
“Are you fucking with me?” he asks.
“Not yet,” I tease. “Now, go get ’em, Honey.”
The look in his eye almost makes me feel bad for the Riggers.
Almost.
Chapter 29
Griffin
The Oil Riggers are an easy five games, and it’s on to the Aces, a tougher six-game punch-up that gets nasty in game six when they decide if they can’t win, they can at least make us remember them. The conference final is a close one, the Wolverines take us all the way to seven games, but we come out on top, with only one more hurdle to go, the Blizzard. The winningest team this season, with the highest-scoring offense. And the fuckers have home ice advantage.
But we attack hard, taking the first two on the Bliz home ice. Sure, we drop one back home, but now we’re on the cusp. One last game, three periods, against the Blizzard, and the cup will be ours.
We’re doing it. We actually might win this whole damn thing.
Hawks, Stanley Cup champions. Griffin Mahoney, Stanley Cup champion.
“Rawrrr! Let’s do this!” Brody roars, flexing his arms and posing.
“Put your jock on,” Howe tells him, covering his eyes like he hasn’t seen Brody’s dick dozens of times before.
Brody, being Brody, puts his hands behind his head and swirls his hips around, helicoptering his dick instead. “You know you like it,” he taunts.
Even Howe can’t resist laughing outright at Brody’s awful moves. “Careful, bro-man, or Dom’s sister’s gonna have you cheering with the dancers up there. Oh wait, maybe I should call her Griffin’s girl now instead.”
That stops all dick talk and dancing instantly as all eyes turn to Dominic and me, waiting for our reaction. It’s been just over six weeks since everything blew up during the second game against the Torches. Things are technically still new between me and Penny, but honestly, it feels like I’m finally home. The invisible weight I’ve carried on my shoulders for years has fallen away, and I can be lighter, happier, even sillier, and those are three words that have never once been used to describe me. But now, with Penny’s influence, I’m growing and doing better. All thanks to her.