Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Honestly, I can’t blame her. Hockey men are definitely a handful. We’re animals.
The numbers on my dashboard blink from 7:13 to 7:14. I glance toward Coach’s house. The curtain moves in the living room window.
“T?” I prompt.
She digs her fingers into her temples, then releases a heavy breath. “Let’s get this over with,” she says.
Before we even reach the porch, the front door swings open to reveal Brenna. “Oh, this is perfect!” She shakes her head with a look of amused pity. “You dumbass.”
“She’s talking to me,” I assure Taylor.
“Obviously,” my girlfriend replies.
The girls hug and compliment each other’s outfits. I’ve already forgotten what Taylor’s wearing, because I’m busy trying to figure out if her mom marrying Coach makes us brother and sister until I realize Coach and I aren’t related. My brain’s stuck in neutral.
“You still have time to run, Con,” advises Brenna. “Go. Run free, you sexy Viking conqueror.”
Taylor turns to study me.
“What?” I demand.
“You do look like a sexy Viking conqueror.” Then she grabs my hand and grips it tightly. “And you’re not going anywhere, Thor. You’re my wing-man, remember?”
“I agreed to the job before we discovered your mom’s banging my Chad.”
“She’s banging my dad,” Brenna corrects with a snicker.
“Can we please not discuss our parents’ sex life?” Taylor begs.
“Good point.” Brenna opens the door wider and takes our coats, hanging them up in the front hall. “You seriously didn’t know?” she asks me.
“Did you? Because a warning would’ve been nice.” I hear voices coming from the back of the house and figure everyone else is in the kitchen.
“I knew I was meeting Dad’s new girlfriend’s kid, but I had no idea it was Taylor—or that she’d bring you. This is the greatest night of my life.” Brenna goes running into the kitchen ahead of us like a fucking tattletale. “Hey, Dad! One of your goons is here.”
Coach is already grimacing at me when we turn the corner to find him and a slender blonde standing at the counter picking at a cheese plate.
I gulp. “Uh, hey, Coach.”
“What are you doing here, Edwards?” Coach growls. “If Davenport’s in jail again, tell him he’s spending the night. I’m not bailing him out agai—” He halts when he catches sight of Taylor.
The blonde raises an eyebrow at her daughter.
“Hey, Mom. This is Conor. Conor, this is my mom. Doctor Iris Marsh.”
“Nice to meet you, Doctor Mom—I mean Doctor Marsh. Fuck.”
“Language!” Brenna chides me, and it takes all my willpower not to flip up my middle finger.
After the awkward introductions, the women go to the dining room while I help Coach in the kitchen. I’m not sure how I’m ever going to recover from calling Iris Doctor Mom to her face. I haven’t done the whole meet-the-parents thing since middle school. And that was just Daphne Cane’s dad chasing me out of his driveway for using his trashcans as a skate ramp.
“How ’bout a beer,” I say, opening the fridge.
He yanks it from my hand and shoves the door closed. “Don’t be a dumbass tonight, Edwards.” Man, he and Brenna are so much alike. It’s scary.
“I’m twenty-one,” I drawl. “You know that.”
“Don’t care.” Coach brusquely drags a hand over his buzz cut. He’s dressed in a suit and tie, with a hint of cologne and aftershave wafting off him. It’s his standard uniform every time there’s a stodgy campus grip-and-grin to attend. Not sure what I expected Coach on a date to look like, but it wasn’t this.
“Only thing going down your throat tonight is water or juice or my fist,” he warns.
“Sounds delicious.”
A death glare hits me square in the eye. “Edwards. I don’t know why I’ve been cursed with sitting through this dinner with one of you knuckleheads—I assume I ran over a unicorn or set fire to an orphanage in a past life—but if you act like an idiot tonight I’m going to have you doing bag skates every day until graduation.”
There goes any hope I had of Coach being my ally in surviving this night.
I keep my mouth shut. Hell, I don’t even comment on his weird unicorn murder fantasies, because I’ll do anything to avoid bag skate punishment. I’ve never puked so much in my life as the time the team showed up late and hungover to practice after driving to Rhode Island to prank Providence College by hoisting their equipment trailer onto the roof of their arena. Coach Jensen had us on the ice until midnight skating suicides. Poor Bucky tripped and fell into our puke bin. Next time I show up at practice and there’s a huge plastic garbage can in the middle of the ice, I’m just leaving the country.
For his part, Coach looks nervous while he shuffles around the kitchen hunting for serving bowls and tongs. He’s got platters laid out with leafy garnishes like something out of an ’80s cookbook you’d find in a used bookstore. Although I can’t deny the kitchen smells good. Like smoky barbecue. I wonder if he’s cooking ribs.