Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“And my first order of business as the acting C…” Pulling away is promptly followed by tossing the Zero themed kitchen towel at his face. “Making the rookie do the rest of the cleanup.”
His impressive reflexes have him effortlessly catching the item. “Net.” He balls up the material and juvenilely throws it back, taunting smirk now sliding into place. “As acting C, you have to show the rookie how it’s properly done.”
“Not it!” I playfully declare on another pass of the item.
My boss catches the object one handed, yet when he goes to throw it a second time, I slyly slide out of the way. “Ohhhhhhh last one to touch, has to be the one to use it for such.”
The sight of his pale blue gaze playfully narrowing immediately pulls a sinister snicker from me. “That’s not a real phrase.”
“It is now.”
Igor quickly glides the short distance around the island to snatch up the item prompting me to take off running. Unfortunately for me, the damn open concept layout doesn’t work in my favor a lot like attempting to duck during his next throw. The towel hits me right in the face spurring open mouth laughter to escape him when I squeak in shock. In spite of knowing that I’m actually going to be the one to do the cleaning – it’s in the job description – I continue the childish antics, chasing him around his living room where he has no problem proving just how well his agility transfers off the ice.
You know if I wasn’t absolutely annoyed over every shot missing, I’d be hella impressed.
My fourth throw misses – to no surprise – but Igor abruptly stopping to answer his phone leaves me the perfect opportunity to become victorious. “Alexeyev.”
I scurry to retrieve the rag and dramatically pelt it in his direction.
“Now?” He steps wide to the left further demonstrating his multitasking skills. “But I need to take Bella to-” His inability to finish the statement stops me from proceeding to play. “Understood.” Ending the call is accompanied by a sigh so heavy it damn near rocks me off my bare feet. “The GM needs to see me.” He momentarily lets his eyes hit the ceiling on a shake of the head. “Can you take Bella to ballet without me?”
“Of course.” A slightly disappointed shrug does everything it can to mask itself as indifference. “It’s my job.”
Igor delivers a tight-lipped smile at the same time he begins to back away.
“However, you might wanna wipe the yogurt off your face before you go do yours.”
Small chuckles leave us both as he disappears in the direction of his downstairs bedroom.
Right.
I’m here to do a job.
And that job is not to flirt with the sexy, single giant whose daughter I just so happen to also really adore.
Chapter 8
Igor
I’ve never seen someone eat ice cream so menacingly.
She’s holding the damn spoon in her hand like a mafia don does a cigar when he’s just waiting to execute the man who not only stole product from him but also kidnapped his wife.
Fuck, I wish I hadn’t fallen asleep in the middle of that chapter last night.
Won’t lie.
Little on the edge of my seat to see what happens next.
For that poor fucker.
Not for me.
Pretty sure I don’t need a word picture of what my “have to move back in with his parents and ref beer league” future looks like.
Delivering a light tap to the doorframe is attached to a deep swallow. “Uh…Adelstein said you wanted to see me?”
“In.” Hennington doesn’t even bother looking in my direction. “Sit.”
The collar of my light gray vintage book t-shirt suddenly shrinks around my neck like a noose as I cautiously close our distance. “Informal meeting?”
“No.” She waits until I’ve parked myself in the seat beside her to continue. “I just like watching the Zam clean the blood off the ice.” My GM lets her head swivel to face me, clearly demonstrating where the Exorcist movie stole that move from. “It soothes me.”
Not stuttering nears the point of impossible. “Blood?”
“Private club tourney.”
Wonder if wearing the stripes for them pays better than college shit.
Hennington shoves her spoon into the bowl of ice cream she’s clutching and casually asks, “Got your phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Do me a solid?” Her harsh carving of a scoop indicates it’s a command masquerading as a request. “Pull up our IG page.”
Retrieving my cell from my gray sweatpants pocket is swiftly followed by completing the action.
On the regs?
I avoid soc’ shit.
Nothing good ever fucking pops up.
From a playing standpoint?
It’s always about who’s dragging ass on the ice, who’s ass is being dragged off the ice to the player assistance program, and who’s ass should be dragged off of which team to be somewhere better.
And better is so goddamn relative it makes my eye twitch.
Maybe it would be better for their stats but worse for their mental health.