Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
It’s when the rookies of each team throw a party for the veterans, and the rookies have to bear the expense and the brunt of anything bad that happens. It’s usually held at an expensive restaurant, and nothing is off limits to the veterans. That means they can order every damn item on the menu for themselves and have just a tiny bite of each thing, and drink as much alcohol as they want. And if the after-party involves women of a certain ilk, well, that expense is borne by the rookies, too. I’ve heard of some tabs running over a hundred thousand dollars when it’s all said and done, but that’s not going to happen amongst our team. It’s not that we won’t go out and have a wild and crazy time. We’ll absolutely order the most expensive steak and supreme liquor, but we’re too close to the playoffs to screw with the magical mojo we’ve got going on, so the veterans are not going to try to break the rookies. It’s not worth it for one evening of fun.
Regardless, Tacker said he wasn’t interested and turned down my invitation twice. It was time to pull out the big guns and have Erik and Blue invite Tacker on an outing with them and Blue’s brother, Billy. Or have Legend ask Tacker to come over to help with Charlie while Legend visits Pepper in the hospital. I doubt he’d say no to those requests.
After dropping Tacker off, I’d gone to the arena and worked out, then we actually had a short skate practice that wasn’t mandatory, but I wanted the distraction. Apparently, everyone else had, too. Only Legend was absent, but that was understandable. The informal practice had been followed by a short meeting where Coach Perron praised us for coming together as a team today, making sure we remembered we were so much more than just a bunch of talented skaters.
It was totally inspiring.
So yeah, we ended on a good note, but my shoulders are still tight with tension that probably has everything to do with Regan. I’d gotten just a few minutes to bare my soul to Bishop today about my predicament before it all went by the wayside. Rightly so, my focus was on Charlie, Pepper, and Legend—and Tacker to some degree—and I had not had much time to reflect on what he’d told me.
His advice was way too simple.
Talk to her.
Yeah, fucking fat chance of that. That means discussing feelings and emotions and other shit I’d rather stay away from. I’ve dealt with enough of that crap between Lance dying and finding out Regan could die without this treatment.
I think I’ll just leave things alone.
Surely I’ll stop obsessing about her eventually.
After exiting my car and locking it, I trudge up the steps with my workout bag over my shoulder. I’d been able to grab a quick shower at the arena after our skate, but I’m dying for a longer, hotter one to help give my shoulders and neck tension some relief.
The key slides easily in the lock. When I let myself into my townhome, I’m assailed by the most amazing aroma. I inhale deeply, eyes closed, and let out an appreciative sigh.
“Pot roast, carrots, and potatoes.” Regan’s voice floats toward me, and I open my eyes to see her standing in between the open-plan living room and kitchen. “I called your mom, and she walked me through how to make it. I remember it being your favorite growing up.”
Christ, the squeezing in my chest rattles me a bit, knowing my body is reacting to a simple kindness a woman has done for me.
No, not any woman.
Regan. My wife—who’s not really my wife—after I’ve had a really tiring day.
“Hope you’re hungry,” she continues, giving me an uncertain smile. “I wasn’t sure if you’d had time to eat.”
“I haven’t,” I say, dropping my workout bag in the foyer and placing my keys on the small round table there. The dry protein bar I had after the team skate didn’t count.
“Well, sit down,” she instructs, pointing to the breakfast nook table before turning into the kitchen. “I’ll make you a plate.”
It’s at this point I should insist she doesn’t have to—that I’m clearly capable of serving myself. But I don’t. Instead, I sit at the table and let someone who made my favorite meal because she was concerned for me serve me as well. For these next however many moments, I’m going to pretend I have a doting wife because, right now, it feels too good to let it go.
I watch Regan carefully as she puts my meal together. There’s a large pan on the top of the stove from which she serves up slices of roast beef along with caramelized carrots and potatoes onto a plate. My eyes drop to her shapely ass molded into a pair of faded jeans, sliding down to her bare feet. I’m thoroughly enjoying not only this purely male fantasy of an awesome home-cooked meal, but also of the fact I’ve got a hot-as-hell wife who has done so for me.