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)
Her head bobs back and forth unconvinced along our walk to the front door.
“You could get really creative and do some out of the rink shit like Synthony Orchestra.”
“Did you just suggest symphony music for a fucking hockey warm up?”
“Synthony Orchestra which is different. It’s this fusion shit of electronic, dance, DJs, and old school tunes presented in a new way. Almost like a much bigger, much more immersive 2CELLOS type of thing.”
Harlow’s face scrunches in befuddlement. “Why are you so into instruments?”
“Why are you only a fan of the skin flute?”
The jab gets a low fist bump of recognition alongside a snicker.
“I’ve always had a thing for instrumentals. They kind of remind me of making a good mixed drink. You need a solid base before you add all the other bullshit. And a solid base can always be enjoyed by itself.” My lips briefly twist in contemplation. “I also used to have a thing for band chicks for most of my pre-high school graduation existence. Couldn’t afford to play in it but definitely enjoyed helping them with stretching their lung capacity for blowing.” The waggle of my eyebrows is followed by another extended set of low bones. “Since instrumental shit is too top cheddar for you-”
“Not a thing.”
“-what about some throwback Pit, like ‘Feel This Moment’? That shit could hit just right.”
At that her expression changes to one that lets me know the idea will actually be noted.
“For now, though, let’s pause warmies playlist shit-”
“Boooooo.”
“And gear up for my surprise.”
Skepticism doesn’t hesitate to shift onto her face.
“Meet me in the living room. Give me twenty.”
“Why twenty?”
“I gotta go get it and set everything up. Plus, you’re gonna put on ass shorts, take a piss, and spend four to nine minutes scrolling through NHL highlights and updates on social media.”
She unlocks the door and tosses a teasing glare over her shoulder. “You don’t know me that fucking well.”
“Got a hundo that says you were planning to grab your Dragon green cheer shorts before I just called you out on it.”
Her lips purse to one side on another playful stare. “You only know that because you did laundry yesterday and remember that they’re my favorite pair.”
I merely waggle my eyebrows in response.
“Ugh,” she grumbles prior to giggling. “See you in twenty.”
And it does take almost twenty minutes exactly for me to change clothes, grab the yoga mats, and get the video pulled up on the flat screen that’s on the non-fireplace side of the large room.
Like I predicted, she saunters in wearing the aforementioned green shorts and a black sports bra, swelling stomach on full display, a vision that makes my dick rock hard.
Look, it’s not all pregnant chicks.
It’s just my pregnant chick.
Something about seeing the woman I’m fucking balls to the walls crazy about growing our family just gets the boys below the belt fist bumping my dick.
It’s normal.
Or at least according to Tate it is.
And he’d know.
“Are those fucking yoga mats?” Harlow questions with the utmost disgust in her tone. “Tell me they’re not. Tell me they’re some required cushioning for pregnant lady bowling or some shit.”
I prepare to answer but curiosity gets the better of me. “Is that a real thing?”
“We could look it up,” she immediately suggests at the same time she slows her stride. “Even that would be better than whatever this,” her finger waves around, “is supposed to be.”
“You don’t even know what we’re fucking doing yet, so how do you know that would be better?”
“Because I’m not a granola eating, horoscope reading, Desperate Housewife watching, mom of four trying to squeeze in ‘fit time’ between Starbucks and over-priced soccer.”
Her harsh criticism receives a hard glower. “How about you just shut the fuck up and hear me out?”
Harlow lets her teeth sink into her bottom lip to prevent from whimpering.
“I found this prenatal yoga channel on YouTube and figured we could give it a shot.”
The sneer I’m presented is followed by leaning against the edge of her gray sofa.
“I know how much you hate that you can’t be on the ice with the boys, so I figured maybe working out with one of them off the ice might help. You need some sort of exercise to blow off steam—seriously you can’t keep throwing an empty ginger ale can around your office every time it’s free skate and you can’t join in—so I looked into different shit and found this. Figured doing it together would make it less awful for you. And believe it or not this yoga shit isn’t as easy as you think.”
Her scowl instantly becomes sarcastic.
“It’s not!”
My loud counter causes her to smirk and shake her head.
“How about we just go ahead and give this shit a try? You hate it? I’ll go back to the drawing board.”
“What if I magically love it?”
“I’ll make time to do it with you twice a week.”