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)
Which is what this shit is.
Being a peeping Tam is a fucking crime!
Especially when the man pays you!
KrisfuckingKringle, that makes me sound like a sex worker who just plays a nanny for a few additional dollars!
“Come on, O’Ree,” Igor states in a surprisingly lighthearted tone while sliding by to take the outstretched hand seconds later, “let’s get you to the kitchen for med.”
Annoyance over his inability to remember my last name despite the fact he was just calling out my first causes me to huff, “My last name’s Grier. Not O’Ree.”
“O’Ree is a hockey legend,” he explains during our stroll back to the area I probably should’ve never left. “He was also blind in one eye after a puck struck him probably a lot like the way the door frame just struck you.”
“How the hell do you play hockey blind?!”
“The same way you do other stuff you don’t wanna get caught doing.” Igor shoots me an impish smirk. “In secret.”
Okay.
That answers the why the door was open question.
It wasn’t meant to be.
He just didn’t guarantee it shut.
Guess we should be thankful it was me and not Bella?
Although maybe because Bella wasn’t home, he figured he was fine?
“Up,” he instructs on a kick of his chin towards the island.
Unlike before, I don’t bother arguing.
Hopping onto the counter space near the naughty list items that forced me to go searching for him in the first place requires some finagling and all the turbulent movement unfortunately amplifies the pain that seems to be making a permanent home in the middle of my forehead.
It only takes a minute before towel covered Igor is arriving directly in front of me and thrusting a small, stuffed object at me. “Hold this.”
The corner of my lips can’t help from curling. “And who is this?”
“That’s Make Me Better Moose. When Daddy is making sure we’re hurt, not injured, we hold him for the assist.” He gently pinches my cheek and lifts it up. “We all need a teammate to have our back, especially when shit gets rough.” There’s no stopping my grin from reaching ear to ear regardless of how much it physically hurts. “Now, hold still. I need to make sure you’ve got a shutout coming.”
It takes a moment to conclude the reference he’s creating yet the instant I have, another smile is sparked.
All hockey, all the time.
That’s hockey players for ya.
Igor gently caresses the tender area in what I can only label to be awkward silence.
Hell, what else would you call the wordless moment you share after watching someone give themselves an old fashioned to thoughts of you?
I mean…they were thoughts of me, right?
He doesn’t call anyone else Joeski that I know of.
Then again…maybe he does.
Maybe I should ask?
Would it be too weird to ask?
Probably right now it would.
CandycanesonaChristmasTree, why is it this man makes me so…rambly and babbly and obnoxiously made for streaming small-town woman in a big city ditzy?!
Rather than focus on the answers to that line of questioning, I redirect my attention elsewhere only to land on the fact that he’s practically naked and touching me.
Like one gust of air and that towel, which is clearly hanging on for dear life like I would, is crashing to the ground.
Where I wouldn’t mind it staying to be totally honest.
The man is so impressively stacked that burying him in layers upon layers of hockey gear feels like that should be a penalty in itself.
Not being able to see the striking strip of shades that contain all the teams he’s played for along with his number should land him two minutes in the box for unsportsmanlike conduct.
Suddenly spotting a collection of foreign lettering right above his right hip, yet right below the aforementioned line of colors has me mindlessly questioning, “Is that Russian?”
Igor ceases his cautious prodding prior to answering. “Da.”
“What’s it mean?”
“This one,” he casually points to the territory, “is hockey. And this one,” his fingers carefully move the dangling fabric to the side to showcase me another on his knee, “is family.”
“Why do you have family there?”
“As a reminder to always be strong for them,” Ig explains, stare momentarily lingering at the spot. “To always get back up for them.” Our gazes drift to meet one another’s. “To always…keep going for them.” He hesitates to add more information but thankfully does. “My grandparents were…resilient as fuck. They uh…didn’t have an easy go of it. Being in a foreign country…a foreign country you moved to in hopes of a better life for your children…a foreign country that doesn’t want you in it and never fails to remind you of that is hard shit. Ded, my grandfather, was a commercial fisherman in Alaska. Hard labor. Hard hours. And when my father fell in love with hockey, he…put in that extra work to help make my father’s dreams come true. Ded missed a lot of time with my father, but father got everything he needed to carve his way into a professional sport where he then did the hard work. Spent the hard hours making sure his father didn’t waste his life for nothing.”