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)
I fall back against my pillows, glaring at him through the screen.
And the son of a bitch actually smirks. “You’re pouting.”
I curl my lip, snarling like a pissed-off Elvis at him. “I don’t pout. But if you don’t want to talk to me, I’m not talking to you. Let’s get this over with. Show me your dick so we can both go to sleep.”
He’s quiet for three slow breaths. “I caught the stream of the eleven o’clock. You did great and looked good. Better than Milligan, for damn sure.”
Steve Milligan is the sportscaster for the major news network, and as such, basically holds local athletes in the palm of his hand, dangling coverage over their heads as incentive to deal with him. He’s an old school, you-grease-my-palm-and-I’ll-grease-yours type, and he has definite feelings about someone female being allowed in sports. Yeah, allowed. He’s said that actual word to me before. Talk about a don’t-meet-your-idols moment.
But Dalton watched the news. Watched me. Took the time to go to our silly little website, click the link to our streaming channel, and watch the live telecast. I’m not only shocked, I have no words.
“If Milligan’s the bar, it’s on the fucking ground. But thanks for watching,” I finally say.
“Milligan can suck a hairy, wrinkly nutsack,” he spits out, “and choke on the pubes.”
“On that, we can agree.” I can’t help but grin at the venom in his tone and creative imagery.
“He did some hockey chatter tonight,” Dalton explains. “It wasn’t particularly complimentary to yours truly.”
Ah, so that’s what’s bothering him. Before I can tell him to ignore anything Milligan has to say, he jumps back to my broadcast tonight. “You go to the North game?”
I nod, letting him goad me into sharing my night. It’s probably a good distraction from whatever shitstorm Milligan stirred up in Dalton’s head, especially when he’s going up against the Bishops tomorrow night. They’re tough competition. “Yeah, right now, I’ve got high school football, basketball, and hockey, and North had two games tonight, so I could cover both in-person. Plus the AHL games, which I prefer because hockey’s my passion.”
Matt, my coworker at the local station, does the coverage for college and major league games, and then there’s Milligan’s report on the metro news that covers it all again, plus does a deep dive into the NFL games with a thirty-minute breakdown.
“Mine too. I don’t know what I’d do without it. Hockey’s all I’ve ever been good at,” Dalton says, sounding almost wistful and embarrassed at the same time. “Playing pro is all I’ve ever wanted.”
“No plan B, huh?” I grin, understanding exactly what he means. I’ve seen that hyperfixation in the mirror, only for me it was broadcast journalism. “We’re already living the dream in a lot of ways. If you’d told fifteen-year-old me that I’d be a sportscaster for the local news, I would’ve been ecstatically bouncing around like a lunatic. I bet you’d be the same way if someone told teenage Dalton Days that you’d make a career out of hockey, no matter the league.”
“Yeah, but every time I step on the ice, I worry it might be the last time. Which is terrifying because the pro carrot’s been dangling for so long, just out of reach, that I’m not sure what’d happen if it wasn’t still there,” Dalton says. “Or worse, I couldn’t play at all. That’s what Milligan was alluding to—that I’m hoping to go out on a high because I’m obviously on my way out.”
This again? I swear he’s like a dog with a bone. Or an athlete with a one-track mind and a healthy sense of his own mortality, sports-wise. I’ve figured out there’s only one way to attack one of his self-doubting moods, and I never would’ve expected it. Humor. If I can get him to lighten the hell up for a single minute, he turns back into the cocky, egotistical pro he’s earned the right to be.
I rub my finger and thumb together. “Waahh, waahh, waahh. Let me play a tiny violin for poor Dalton Days, the goalie with the best stats in the league, who’s in the best shape of his life and playing better than he ever has. Poor you. Now who’s pouting?” I look at him accusingly through the screen, and he laughs. “That’s what I thought. Quit pity-partying and start feeling yourself like the arrogant asshole you are. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but you’re killing it on the ice. Act like it. Repeat after me . . . I’m Dalton Fucking Days.”
He grins, his teeth beautifully white and surprisingly all present and accounted for, an oddity in hockey players. “I’m Dalton Fucking Days.”
“I eat, breathe, bleed, shit, and live for hockey.” He arches a dark brow, but repeats my words. “And I’m gonna go out on the ice tomorrow night and block every puck that comes my way like the badass goalie I am.” He echoes me again. “And then I’m gonna send Joy Barlowe a big thank-you flower arrangement—no roses!—because she put up with my grumpiness after her own long day of work.”