Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“Gonna come,” I choke out.
I feel her smiling around my dick, and that’s the trigger. I go off like a rocket, groaning from the rush of pleasure. She releases me from her mouth and strokes me through the release, as every muscle contracts and the knot in my gut unravels.
I’m out of breath and wiped out when she cleans me off and comes back to bed.
She cuddles up beside me and presses a kiss to my lips. “Better?”
I’m not sure I manage a response before I fall asleep.
I’ve still got a headache from last night and my phone’s blowing up when I throw myself on the couch with a bowl of cereal in the morning. Hannah was gone by the time I woke up. Lately she’s been pulling ten- to twelve-hour shifts at the studio producing an album with some new rapper.
TUCKER: Had a virtual watch party for your big night. We drank every time the camera cut to you picking your nose.
DEAN: Those were some tight pants you were sporting last night. Do they come in men’s sizes?
I roll my eyes at the messages popping up in the group chat. My friends are dicks. In response, I send them a photo Logan took last night, the one of me flipping him off while holding my award in one hand and a fifth of some expensive bourbon he stole from the bar in the other.
DEAN: Seriously, tho. Congrats.
TUCKER: Proud of you.
ME: Thanks, assholes. Really appreciate it.
LOGAN: How come nobody’s congratulating me?
DEAN: Did you win an award?
DEAN: Yeah, didn’t think so.
TUCKER: Better luck next year.
LOGAN: Speaking of my marriage—
DEAN: Not a single person was speaking about that!
TUCKER: Nobody.
LOGAN: Don’t lie. You were all thinking about it.
ME: We were not.
TUCKER: At all.
LOGAN: We’re debating whether this Paris trip is considered a honeymoon. I say yes, because, um, Europe. That’s honeymoon central. But Grace says it’s not because she was already planning on going to see her mom before we impulsively decided to tie the knot. But it’s a honeymoon, right?
DEAN: I’ll defer to Tuck on this one.
TUCKER: Not a honeymoon. Plan something else, you unoriginal bastard.
LOGAN: Uh-huh because a beach vacay is so original.
TUCKER: We almost died in a plane crash and then had a burial at sea for a haunted doll. Try and beat that.
DEAN: You asshole. I thought Sabrina was joking. Did you really throw Alexander in the ocean??
TUCKER: Sure did.
He punctuates that with a smiley face and the preaching hands emoji.
Wow. I wholly approve of someone finally taking the initiative to do what we’ve all wanted to do. Just didn’t expect it to be Tucker. I thought Logan would snap first. Or maybe Allie. But Tuck for the win.
LOGAN: Nice. GRTHR
DEAN: Wtf man. Why you always gotta do that?
ME: Wait, I think I got this.
I stare at the screen, my brain working to decode Logan’s acronym. He and I have a cosmic mental connection. Finally, I hazard a guess.
ME: Good riddance to horrible rubbish?
LOGAN: Close!!! Haunted rubbish.
TUCKER: Gotta go. It’s Daddy & Me day at the indoor playground.
DEAN: Lame.
I drop my phone next to my empty cereal bowl and collapse on the couch. With the post-season over, I’ve got nothing better to do than lie in front of the TV. I’m halfway through the original Jurassic Park trilogy when my agent calls.
“Hey, man. What’s up?”
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Landon starts, his normally brash tone replaced by a timid one.
“What happened?” A dozen scenarios flash through my head. I’ve been traded. The team is moving. We’ve been sold. Coach was fired.
“I need you to remember I’m obliged to bring you these offers.”
“Just spit it out.”
“I got a call from a producer at ESPN for that show The Legacy,” he says.
“That the one where they’re in somebody’s living room and the guy’s always crying?”
“Uh, yeah. That’s the one.”
“All right. So they want to have me on? I’m not about to bare my soul in front of a fireplace, but—”
“Here’s the thing,” Landon cuts me off. Then he doesn’t keep going.
I sit up and run a hand through my messy hair. This is the sort of opportunity that could raise the profile of my brand as an athlete, as Landon always put it. It’s the kind of thing we hoped would come along after the NHL Honors. Yet something’s off.
“Dude, what?” I demand. “You’re worrying me.”
“They want you and your dad.”
“Fuck off.” I bark out a humorless laugh.
“Hang on. Hear me out.”
Landon starts talking fast, explaining how they want some sort of then-and-now, father-son story comparing our careers. Which even if I didn’t hate the man sounds like a stupid idea. It’s hard enough growing up in a parent’s shadow. Getting compared to them our entire career isn’t a trope a son wants to play into.
“The angle they’re going for is a ‘where you came from and where you’re headed’ story. Throw some old family photos up there. You as a kid. On the pond where your dad taught you to skate. Then breaking records as a pro. That type of thing. It’s a two-hour segment.”