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)
The thought of her does funny things to my chest. Things I’ll have to deal with quite soon. But for now, I swing open the door, say hello to Yasmine, then head to the bar, sitting down next to a guy with horn-rimmed glasses and suspenders. He looks vaguely familiar, so I give a friendly-ish nod and order a scotch.
“Coming right up, Mr. Christiansen,” the bartender says and once he gives me the drink, the man next to me turns my way and clears his throat. “Hey! You’re Stefan Christiansen. Number Eighteen.”
Ah, a fan. That makes sense.
Except, wait.
As I say hello I get a better look at the guy, and he feels awfully familiar—in a stupid hat kind of way. He’s holding a canvas bag, and he sticks out a hand.
“Xander Arlo, The Dapper Man.”
Irritation curls through me at the sight of this fuckface—the asshat, toxic ex-boyfriend who treated my girl like shit and dumped her for someone with more followers.
I clench my fists.
“I’d been hoping to catch up with you. I see you’re a food man,” he says, glancing around.
No shit, Sherlock. “Yes. I like food,” I say dryly.
He gestures to me, indicating my suit. “And tailored duds.”
“Sure,” I say, cautiously. Why the fuck is he here?
“Well, I’d love to give you a chance to get in on a great opportunity.”
He’s come here to pitch me on something?
Oh, this is rich. He slides over the bag, then opens it to show me a loaf of wrapped bread. “It’s my special sourdough recipe. I’m going to open a brand-new shop,” he says, then makes a camera frame with his hands. “I’m calling it Dough and Duds. It’ll sell my homemade bread and my hand-selected bespoke suits. Small batch for what you put on your body and in your body.” He slides me a folder with a shiny cover. “There’s a presentation in here. I only have a few slots for investors, but I’d love to have you on board.”
Is he for real? I barely know what to say to an idea that’s so fucking ridiculous. “You’re opening a bread and suit shop?”
“Homemade bread,” he corrects.
“Pretty sure it’s not homemade. It’s bakery-made, or what we call house-made in the business.”
He taps the wrapped loaf. “Try it. It’ll blow your mind. Like I said, I only have a few slots left, but I’ll hold one for you.”
The chutzpah of this asshole. The motherfucking chutzpah. I’d like to punch his face. Rearrange his nose. Dislocate a shoulder.
But, however momentarily satisfying, those would be career killers.
I take the bread but slide the folder back to him. “I don’t need to check out your presentation to know this is a hard pass. And, frankly, so are you.”
Oh. Would you look at that? I was a dick after all.
Sometimes it happens.
On the way home, I swing by a nearby park and walk to the duck pond. Henry’s usually here at night. He keeps a tent near the ducks, and sleeps there. The older man comes by the restaurant most nights, and we give him food, when we have extras.
I find him on the bench, doing a crossword puzzle. “Henry. Didn’t see you tonight,” I say.
Looking up, he sets down the pencil. “This one is hard. It’s taking me some time.”
“No worries, man. But here’s some bread for you,” I say, then hand him the loaf.
He leans in to smell it. “Smells good.”
Well, at least Xander can bake well. “Enjoy. But don’t feed the ducks,” I say, pointing to the sign by the pond advising against it.
Henry gives me a look like are you for real. “Kid, I know.”
I wave, then turn around. “See you soon.”
“See you soon,” he echoes as I leave with no food waste.
That’s one issue disposed of.
But isn’t it just the way things go—when you shake off one problem, another creeps up on you. Hayes’s mood starts worrying me as soon as we leave for Detroit. He keeps to himself on the plane. That’s no good for a guy who wants to feel like part of the team. Before the game, he’s all about his earbuds and his rock music. Fine, that’s not so strange—every guy has a different way they get into the zone. They do something before a game, then nab a much-needed assist on the game-winning goal, and that becomes their thing. Maybe quiet mode is Hayes’s thing.
But I’m not captain for nothing. My job isn’t just to look out for the guy I’m sharing a girl with. My job is to look out for the whole team. When a teammate is out of sorts, I’ve got to either pick him up or kick him in the pants.
I choose the former.
When the afternoon game ends in the early evening, the team jet takes us to Chicago in an hour, giving us plenty of time for dinner. I round up Dev, Brady, and a bunch of other guys and take them to my favorite Chicago pizza spot. The deep dish is approaching ten out of ten levels, but I’d like to think it’s my masterminding ways that loosen up my buddy. Over dinner, he and Brady shoot the shit about a home improvement project the new dad is working on, then they trade Netflix recs, with Brady admitting he’s a diehard Bridgerton fan and Hayes confessing he’s a Schitt’s Creek kind of man.