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 do. It’s a fact of life. But I’m not small by any means, and given the barely audible gasp that passes Joy’s lips, we both know it.
Chapter 2
Joy
That’s with shrinkage? Holy shit! I’m well on my way to hell in a handbasket for the dirty, filthy thoughts I’m having about the goalie of the team I’m here to report on.
When my boss, Greg, told me to see if I could catch any of the team for last-minute insights about the season, I was pissed. I’ve already talked to the guys of the Maple Creek Moose throughout the preseason, had an on-air interview with Coach Wilson, and completed my own stats-focused analysis of last season in preparation for the opening game report.
Now? I might have to send Greg one of those fancy fruit baskets where they cut the pineapples into flowers and dip the strawberries in chocolate, because without his annoying reminder that as a woman in sports reporting I have to work three times as hard to be taken half as seriously, I wouldn’t have this particular image to store in my mental memory bank.
And that would be a shame. A real shame. Because Dalton Days is hung.
Not that I’m a girth queen or length snob. Hell, I’d like to think I’m more into sweet talk and romantic gestures than penis. But his is . . . pretty. And scary. And looks like a disco stick I’d like to take for a whirl.
Except he’s completely off-limits.
I’m a sports reporter, and as such, privy to locker room behind-the-scenes action. The fact that I’m even seeing Dalton like this shouldn’t be a big deal in the slightest if I’m sticking to my completely professional capacity.
Not to mention, he’s friends with my older brother, Shepherd, and since Dalton joined the Moose five years ago as the replacement for a beloved goalie, he’s earned a reputation as a ladies’ man. That’s putting it nicely. Honestly, Dalton comes with warning labels like “player” and “man whore,” but now I can see why. Who wouldn’t want a little taste? A single night of fun? A challenge to see how deep I could take him?
I mean . . . someone might think that. Not me specifically. No, not Joy Grace Barlowe. I’m not that girl. Nope. Not. That. Girl. At all.
“Um, is it growing? Like, right before my eyes?” I wonder aloud, sounding like one of those late-night Chia Pet commercials.
Dalton looks down at himself like he has no idea.
He has to feel that, right? He’s got a third leg hanging between his thickly muscled thighs, and it’s rising through thin air like a flag being erected on the moon. His hands are even on his hips, framing it like the masterpiece it is.
One small step for man, one giant erection for mankind.
“You’re staring. He likes the attention,” he snaps, cupping himself with his hands. “Perfectly natural.”
“So I hear,” I murmur, implying that I know all about his reputation, both on and off the ice.
I should be getting my angel halo any second now because like the total good girl I am, I don’t mention that the piercing looped into his head and out below his crown is still peeking out around his wrist. Because he’s that big.
I mean, does a vagina even accommodate semitruck-length dick without a ruined cervix or bruised back wall?
Okay, that halo might be on back order given that train of thought. But I should at least get a participation award for not pointing it out aloud.
Dalton Days doesn’t get embarrassed. He’s a machine, cold as the ice he skates on, showing no emotion. A little attention from me can’t be the thing that does him in. But I swear his cheeks blush—the slightly scruffy ones on his face, not his ass, which I can’t see since he’s facing me fully.
“What do you want, Joy?” he growls, grabbing a pair of black boxer briefs from his locker and stepping into them.
Tragically, his penis disappears into the cotton, and though I can still trace the outline of his shaft, the thin fabric is enough to helpfully rouse me from my dick-drunk stupor. “Opening night,” I answer, as if that’s a logical response to his question.
“What about it?”
I sigh and something clicks in my brain, sending me into the professional mode I pride myself on. “You know what. Comment? Concerns? A quote for the people? Or should I run with ‘duh, I guess I’ll try to stop the little black circle things before they go in the net’?” I tease, making him sound like he’s taken a few too many shots to the head.
Being professional in the sports world is different than being professional in something like banking. I’m expected to be more Bro than Polite Polly, push for answers to hard questions when challenged, and be comfortable refusing to back down against testosterone-fueled men twice my size, even when they could squish me like an annoying gnat if they wanted to.