Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Standing takes a ridiculously long time because I can’t feel my feet. Fritzi watches shamelessly, not giving a single shit about privacy because he’s truly not interested in my dick. He’s watching to see how I stand, measuring any single-sided dependence or weakness, and mentally prepping my pregame routine for tomorrow.
The season’s kicking off, and the games count for real from here on out.
I roughly rub the towel over my body and inform him, “I’m fine.” It’s not a lie, or at least not a complete one. Physically, I’m top notch. Mentally, I’m nervous, not that I’d admit that to anyone. Hell, I barely admit it to myself.
Nope, not going there, I chastise myself and switch to a distracting song, la-la-laaa.
“All right, I’ll see you tomorrow then. Two o’clock call time,” he reminds me. As if I need a reminder that the first game starts at 7 p.m. and we have an entire routine of pregame shit to do before the puck drops.
Fritzi heads out through the back door, and I, thankful to not have an audience, saunter to the lockers. I’m the last player here, but definitely not the last in the building. Coach Wilson will be in his office for another hour at least, and the Zamboni crew is perfecting the ice after we destroyed it. But here in the locker room, it’s blissfully silent. If only it was as quiet inside my brain.
I rake a comb through my hair, then squeeze a dime-size dollop of hair goop into my palm. After rubbing them together, I run my hands through my hair and over the scruff starting to appear on my cheeks. I won’t shave completely until after the season ends. It’s one of the things I consider to be bad luck.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear a door open and slam shut. Fuck! Coach probably wants to go over videos with me, check in on how I’m feeling, and sing “Kumbaya” while we hold hands or some shit.
I sigh heavily, wishing I was the type that could cut and run five minutes after practice. But I’m not that guy.
“Oh!” a voice exclaims behind me, but that’s definitely not Coach Wilson. That’s a female voice.
I turn around to find our local sports reporter, Joy Barlowe, standing ten feet away, staring at me with shock written all over her pretty face.
“See something you like?” I ask, smirking arrogantly.
I don’t cover myself. Why would I? I’m not ashamed of my body. And the team has two rules about Joy Barlowe. The first is from Coach Wilson—treat the press with respect. That means no discriminating against the sole female sports reporter in the tristate area. If I wouldn’t cover up for Steve Milligan, the bigshot who did a scathing newscast after that championship fuckup, then I shouldn’t for Joy. Her having a pussy doesn’t change our behavior, our answers, or our actions, especially in our own private locker room where swinging dicks happen.
And two, from Shepherd Barlowe, my teammate, my friend, and Joy’s older brother—don’t fuck or fuck with his sister.
But unlike Fritzi, Joy is definitely looking at my dick, which explains the awestruck reaction. It’s one I’m used to. Shock, fear, occasionally excitement, and once, horror. I try not to dwell on that last one, though, because we were young and stupid, and I didn’t have a solid gauge on how unique my dick was back then. Not like I do now.
Length? Check.
Girth? Check.
Pierced? It is now, which would’ve terrified that scared college girlfriend even more.
Tattoos? Oh yeah. Dozens of them trace my body in a patchwork of seemingly senseless chaos, but they all mean something to me.
“Awww, it’s so wittle and cute,” Joy coos, wiggling her pinkie finger in the air while she peers at my appendage like it’s a damn puppy. “It’s okay, Days. Don’t be embarrassed. Some guys are growers, not show-ers.”
I barely hold back a snicker of respect. Joy’s a ballbuster for sure. There’s no doubt about that. She can out-roast any of us with her wicked tongue and quick wit, to the point where she’s basically one of the guys. Only a hell of a lot better to look at.
Speaking of, I slowly and methodically let my eyes lick down her body, shameless in my assessment of her. The scoop neck of her baby-pink shirt teases barely above her cleavage, her black jeans are painted over her curves, and her feet are covered in New Balance sneakers I know are all the rage because my sister is on the hunt for the out-of-stock-everywhere shoes. Slowly, I let my gaze return to her face, taking in her perfectly highlighted and tousled hair, pursed glossy lips, and pale-blue eyes, which are full of ice as she glares at me, waiting for my returning zinger.
“Maybe it doesn’t see anything it likes. And for your information, I got out of the ice bath a minute ago, so I’ve got Alaska-level shrinkage going on.”