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)
“So you make that decision for me?” My hands are legit shaking. I hate this man so much, it causes a physical disturbance in my body.
“It’s the right one. You don’t turn down an opportunity like this.”
“I decide. Not you. Just because you can’t stand not being the center of attention anymore—”
“Garrett.” He sighs. So bored with my concerns. “I’d hoped you’d matured over the last year, but I see now I overestimated you.”
“Fuck you, old man. I’m not a kid anymore. You can’t pull this shit with me.”
There was a time the disappointed dad routine worked. Back when I was five years old, six, seven. A little kid desperate to impress his unimpressible father. It drove me into spirals of depression and self-doubt. I would do anything to gain his approval. Until I got older and understood the vicious manipulation at play. On a child. And realized what a bastard he is.
“I won’t entertain your tantrums, boy. One day you’ll understand everything I’ve done to give you a career in this sport.” Condescension drips from his tone. “Maybe then you’ll appreciate how lucky you are to have been born my son.”
I’d sooner eat my own foot.
“In any case,” he says, with that smug drone that makes my eye twitch. “You will do this interview. You’ll sit for the cameras, be charming and personable, and just maybe be smart enough to reach for that next level to become one of the greats. It’s what a professional does.”
I hang up on him, because if allowed, he’d keep talking to jerk off to the sound of his own voice. Anyway, I’ve heard this speech before. Be the Michael Jordan of hockey. Fame that transcends the sport.
Which is all well and good, but if Phil Graham is standing beside me when it happens, I can’t see myself ever enjoying any of it.
As it is, I can’t shake the conversation or the dread of the interview during the tournament and our team finishes the day dead last. I’m double-digits over par and spent most of the afternoon up to my knees in the rough. Logan didn’t fare much better, setting up shop in numerous sand traps while the spectators had a good laugh. Which is a bummer for our teammates who paid to play with us, but they were good sports about the whole thing. Keeping them plied with drinks helped, as well as the ribeyes we inhale at a nearby award-winning restaurant after the tournament wraps for the day. The two men are brothers from Texas and own a cattle ranch together, so I trust they know their meat when they tell us this is the best steakhouse in the entire state.
By the time we return to the hotel after dinner, it’s quarter past nine and all I want is to shower and get out of these sweaty clothes. I don’t bother turning on the light as I stride into my room, tugging my shirt over my head before the door even closes behind me. I’m about half undressed when something suddenly moves in the mirror.
On instinct, I grab a glass water bottle from the desk and spin around, ready to chuck it at whatever is behind me.
“Don’t shoot,” a female voice drawls in response.
I lower the bottle. Quickly stick an arm out to slap the switch on the wall, flooding the room with light. My heart’s pounding and the adrenaline is still pumping hot through my veins, so it takes me a second to comprehend the naked woman lying in my bed, only partially under the covers.
With an unbothered smirk, she raises her hands in surrender. “I’m unarmed.”
I draw a calming breath. “Who the hell are you?”
“Your present,” she teases before shimmying the rest of the blanket off her to reveal the two red bows stuck to her nipples. “You’re welcome.” Then she rolls over and flashes me her bare ass, which has my name written across it in black Sharpie.
Garrett on one cheek, Graham on the other.
I can’t.
I just fucking can’t.
Without a word, I turn on my heel and stalk out of the room. Pulling my shirt on as I get into the elevator still carrying the bottle of water. Swear to Christ the next person who messes with me is getting clobbered.
Downstairs, my mood gets darker and more turbulent as I get into it with the manager at the front desk, who seems to have mistaken me for someone with patience to spare. Like, dude, we could talk about your woefully inadequate security that let a naked chick in my room with my name on her ass like she’s looking to put my skin on a stuffed animal on her bed, or you could just give me a new room so I can go to fucking sleep.
While I’m waiting for them to finally get their act together and move my stuff, I text Logan.