Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Donut has proven herself though. When I adopted her at Little Friends a couple years ago, I did the rescue’s therapy dog training program so I could bring her to visit the assisted living home where I do gentle stretching on a volunteer basis for the residents. With the hockey players, though, she mostly just shows off how much better she is at downward dog than anyone else there.
In between classes, I hunt for apartments. My friend Ivy has a lead on a place in her old building but nothing’s solid yet. The rest of the time I’m shooting videos and working with my tech wizard younger brother to fine-tune my app.
But the festival starts tomorrow, so I’m going to focus on that. As Griffin and I finish our latest Zoom on the back deck, discussing what he thinks it’ll take to get the app up and running—translation: marketing money—he takes off his glasses, then adds, “And listen, don’t look but your POS ex is running a piece on his site on Five Ways to Know You’re In a Relationship Going Nowhere.”
I seethe. “Are you kidding me?”
“I wish,” he says. “That guy is such a tool. Like he’s a fucking relationship expert.”
“That’s how he positions himself.”
“He really does.”
My jaw ticks with anger. But my gut churns with worry. Did he say something nasty about me in it? “Do I want to look at it, Griff? Is he talking about me somehow?”
“No. It’s just generic toxic-ex stuff.”
“I’m the toxic ex?”
“This is why I visit his site,” he says gently. “So you don’t have to.”
But the thing is, as I cook dinner, as I walk Donut, as I prep for the festival, my laptop is a siren calling to me. I can’t help it. I’ve got to know what he’s said.
I sink onto the couch, flip open my computer, and pop over to his dating advice site. I grip the edge of the machine as I read.
Is he for real?
I want to fling this computer at the wall. Maybe I need Yoga for a Toxic Ex.
Because I can’t believe he wrote this: I never felt an ounce of chemistry when I kissed my most recent ex-girlfriend and that should have been a big red flag, boys.
I uncork a bottle of wine, pour a glass of Chablis all the way to the top, put on a bikini, and turn on the hot tub.
Time to detox.
10
MY SUIT
Hollis
Down by one.
The clock is ticking. Nine minutes left in the third period.
The Vegas team’s defenders are a wall around their net here in our arena. But I have a plan.
I flip the puck to Rhys, or so they think. My guy, Fisher, sneaks up and takes the puck from me instead, swiftly maneuvering it through the chaos of sticks and skates. While Rhys lures the defenders toward him as Gavin fends them off, Fisher slaps that little black disc through the five-hole. A clean, see-you-later-sucker shot.
The lamp lights and the score is tied. The sound of the horn blares as the crowd erupts in cheers, our hometown audience going wild.
“Yes! Fuck yes,” I shout as Rhys speeds past me, giving a congratulatory shoulder bump.
“That’s how we do it.” He grins, and I can’t argue with him there.
“You know it, bro.”
He shakes his head, laughing as I call him that.
“C’mon, bro! Say it!” I goad.
Another shake.
Rhys has adapted so many Americanisms after playing here for so long. But he’s never picked up bro. Maybe someday. I am nothing if not optimistic.
I jump over the boards, snatching my water bottle from the bench, and take a quick swig during the line shift.
The sound of skates scraping against the ice fills my ears as guys like our captain and star winger handle the puck now. We’re always in good hands when they’re leading the charge. We lost our last game. Gavin blamed the fish tacos. But we had banh mi for lunch today since I insisted we just needed to mix it up.
A couple minutes later, I’m back out there. And a few minutes after that, I’m delivering another assist.
Yes!
We hold them off and end the night with our fox mascot hitting the ice for a victory lap as a W flashes across the scoreboard.
“And now, more than a week off,” I say to Gavin and Rhys as we reach the tunnel. It’s Wednesday night and I’m not even annoyed I wasn’t selected for the All-Star game this weekend. I have the stats—but our team is stacked and we’re already sending a guy better known than I am and one with a more storied career, our captain, Stefan Christensen. Our goalie, Dev Ryland, is a star too and he got the fan vote.
My time will come. It’ll absolutely fucking come.
For now, I’ve got sore muscles and a date with my favorite pillow, my sleeping mask, and some smooth waves on my sleepy time app. I fucking love sleep. I can’t wait to crash.