Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
His expression transposes to one that’s easily my favorite. Light. Playful. “Pretty sure that’s a verbal bar downsky.”
“The incredibly thoughtful compliment you said before was bar downsky. You proving you can use a basic locker room level word, not so much.”
“What I’m hearing is I still get a gino.”
“What I’m hearing is that we need to get this game moving into the second period.”
Brendan chuckles and tips his chin forward. “Lead the way, boss.”
“I like to build from the ground up, so let’s start by getting you some skates.”
Our heading that direction isn’t done like I expect. I expect him to unwind himself, follow slightly behind me like a lost puppy, then wait to be told to sit, stay, and take off his socks and shoes while I give him an overdue lesson on one of the most important pieces of gear. I expect to be teaching and talking and having him hang on my every word, yet instead he’s conversing about performance, asking the right questions regarding quality, leaving my hip as the only thing for him to hang onto.
Which he does.
He hasn’t let go.
Not. Once.
He simply stays stuck to my side wordlessly stating to everyone in eye radius that we are a thing. That they can and should fuck off. Despite the store currently filled mostly with dads helping their sons replace shit they’ve outgrown, it feels a little unnecessary, but fuck me does it feel good.
To have someone this into me.
This concerned with keeping me.
And if I rewind the tape to better understand what’s happening—like a good player shoulder—I know I’ll spot the fact that it feels this good to be into someone else.
To be this excited by the idea of building something with someone.
Someone who gets me.
All of me.
Everything from the constant chirping to my closeted obsession with collecting weird keychains from places I’ve been.
Someone who I feel comfortable sharing stories from my childhood with as much as the trouble I’ve gotten into during my so called adulting.
I like that he not only makes me feel seen but sees me.
Ugh.
On the other skate, though? I don’t fucking like the Lifetime Channel bullshit he makes me spew.
Could definitely do without that shit.
“Do they have to be 3Ps?” Brendan questions, finally unpinning himself from me to plop down on the bench to try on the pairs we grabbed. “Is that why that’s the only brand you picked out?”
“No, it’s just the superior brand,” I thoughtlessly state while pulling out my phone to check the latest round of missed messages. “And we only buy the best for the best.”
The mirth in his tone is unmistakable. “You think I’m the best?”
“I think everyone who puts the dragon on their chest is the best,” I tease on a swipe open of the texts.
“Even Page?”
Pausing my reply is done to meet his challenging gaze. “As much as it fucking pains me to admit…yeah. Even Page. His attitude sucks. His mindset sucks. His skillset is getting sucky but…he’s a veteran for a reason. He was signed for a reason. I think he just needs to remember what it was and be given the right opportunities to showcase it versus just what a pain in the cunt he can be.”
Only a hum is given in response prompting me to resume texting. Not even a full beat passes before he curiously asks, “Blanc?”
Whether he wants to make sure he’s the only one I’m texting dirty thoughts to or the fact he just wants to be more involved in this aspect of my life like he claims is unknown; however, it doesn’t truly matter at the moment since I’m going to cave and answer either way. “Margot.”
“And where is your prized Pitbull? Why isn’t she here barking at us?”
“She’s dealing with finalizing and shopping for the cookout shit.”
“What cookout?”
Looking back up exposes to me the uncomfortable expression he’s bearing. “Too tight?”
“Depends.” Brendan wiggles his leg a bit. “Are my toes supposed to be fist bumping the toe cap before I lace ‘em?”
“No.”
“Then yeah. Too fucking tight.”
“Thank fuck we got different sizes and styles.” My non phone holding hand whirls a finger around to indicate he should continue the process. “Next pair.”
He nods and proceeds to pull them off his feet. “What cookout?”
“I’m hosting a little summer bonding sesh at the house in a couple weeks for the players and their families—this is your heads up.”
“At least I got one.”
“There’ll be food and drinks and they can use the pool at their own risk. I am so not playing lifeguard. And I only did that one summer in Doctenn because Winslow was. Well, that and because I knew it would be better than listening to my mother bitch about my lack of makeup skills for three months.”
Several questions clearly cross his face prior to him picking one to actually ask. “And who’s cooking?”