Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
But his ticker’s softer than a down pillow.
Mine must be made of lead because I can’t be happy for him and his new squeeze. But…track records matter.
I take out my earbuds. “Hey, Dad,” I say, giving him a quick clap on the back.
“Nice assist. How did it feel, your first game with the new team?”
“It was good.” I don’t want to answer truthfully in front of Cora, for no reason other than I don’t trust her. But I do need to be polite. “Hi, Cora,” I say to the woman who at thirty, is three whopping years older than me.
She flicks her ash blonde hair off her shoulder, looking as polished as my father. “You played so great tonight. Your dad and I are so proud of you,” she echoes.
Because they’re a unit. Because he’s attached to her now. Just like he’s been attached to every girlfriend and wife he’s had since my mom left us many, many moons ago.
Me? No thanks to attachments. I tried it in Seattle with Tia, an art gallery manager. We dated for most of the season. But toward the end she kept telling me I was too focused on my career, that I needed to show up for more of her events even though most of them were right before my games. That made it a little hard. When I was traded to Los Angeles, she didn’t even want to try long distance. “You’re cold and aloof anyway,” she’d said.
Well, thanks.
Tia’s behind me, though, and San Francisco’s in front of me. Romance is not on the table for me like it is always for my dad.
“Can we take you out for dinner?” he asks as Stefan walks toward us.
“You’re always hungry after games,” Cora puts in, like she knows me. She doesn’t. She just made a good guess.
But Stefan swoops in. “Good to see you, Mr. Armstrong, but I need to steal this guy away. Got to celebrate that win.”
“Of course,” my father says, understanding the benefits of teamwork.
I’m just grateful for the save. I’m even more grateful for the text from Ivy that lands as I’m walking to Stefan’s car to head to dinner.
Ivy: How was the first night at your new job?
A small smile tugs at my lips. I feel like I can answer her honestly. Maybe it’s because there’s no history with her, no expectations. Or maybe because this whole thing started with her unloading all her job weirdness onto me. I do the same.
Hayes: Nerve-wracking. But weirdly fun too. How was your first night mascotting?
Ivy: Is mascotting even a verb?
Hayes: Now it is.
Ivy: Then I mascotted my furry butt off tonight. And it was…weirdly fun.
We trade friendly messages until we reach the car and I force myself to put the phone away.
“What’s it going to be, Hey You?”
The question comes from my buddy Gage a little later as I scan the chalkboard offerings at Sticks and Stones, a bar he opened recently.
With a chuckle, Stefan offers Gage a fist for knocking, clearly delighted Gage is using the nickname he told him about when we arrived a few minutes ago.
I stare sternly at my longtime friend on the other side of the counter. Now my enemy. “Dude, you don’t get to call me that name.”
The smartass wiggles his brows. “Bartender rules. Someone serves up a story, I get to use it.”
Stefan leans back in the stool, parking his hands behind his head as he casts a glance my way. “Just be glad I helped hand-select a good nickname for you. It could have been Little Buddy.”
I groan at the reminder of my awful nickname from freshman year. “Fuck you. Fuck you. And fuck you some more.” I offer him the bird for each one.
“Why, thank you. That’s my favorite sport,” Stefan says.
“Yeah, mine too,” I say.
With a smirk, Stefan adds, “I’m aware.”
I shoot him a look. We don’t usually talk up the things we’ve done with women in public. But he’s not quite serving anything up. Still, privacy’s privacy.
He returns my look with a reassuring one of his own that says don’t worry. I know the deal.
I relax. I’m also seriously glad he didn’t pick Little Buddy. A bunch of the seniors on our college team gave me that nickname because I was the freshman hotshot. It sucked, obviously, and it’s not like I’m little. I’m taller than The Viking. When those jokesters graduated, I became The Iceman, which suited my style of play. Emotion-less.
From behind the bar, Gage grins. “I can start using Little Buddy though.”
“I certainly hope you’ll use it frequently,” Stefan puts in.
I drag a hand down my neck, then throw in the towel with these two clowns. “You’ve got your pick of ammo,” I say to Gage. “Now, how about a burger and a pale ale?”
“Coming right up, Little Buddy,” he says, then sighs faux thoughtfully as he pulls the tap on the brew. “See? I just can’t decide which one to use.”