Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
"He can't play for two weeks?"
"We'll be lucky if he's only out that long," my brother mutters.
"What? Why?"
"This is his second concussion in a year. We're not taking it lightly. If we have to bench him for the rest of the season to ensure he's able to keep playing for as long as possible, that's what we'll do."
This is what I love about my brother. A lot of people would push for their players to return to the ice as soon as possible. How many times has one played through a head injury in a professional sport? Jordan isn't like that. For him, the players mean more than a win, even if it costs him now. He'd rather have a healthy player in the long run than a win in the short-term. He values people above business.
But it sucks for Atlas. It's his first season with the Falcons, and it's only just begun.
"You like Atlas, don't you?" I ask softly.
"Wouldn't have pushed to get him signed to the team if I didn't." He narrows his eyes on me. "Why?"
"Just curious," I lie.
"Gabriella."
"What?"
"Don't bullshit me. Why are you asking?"
"I was just curious." I shrug. "Is that a crime?"
"Fuck yes," Jordan growls. "You aren't dating one of my players. Actually, you aren't dating at all. You're too young."
"I'm twenty-two, Jordan."
"Exactly. Too young."
"Hollie is only twenty-three." I purse my lips at him. "Are we going to pretend you don't like her?"
He eyes me levelly. "We aren't talking about Hollie. We're talking about you. You aren't dating Atlas Jacks. Don't eve fucking think about it, Half-Pint."
"Oh my gosh!" I scowl at him. "Stop telling me what to do. Besides, I wasn't thinking about it. I was just asking how he was doing, considering he got hit in the head with a freaking puck right in front of me. I didn't know that was a crime. But maybe we should be talking about Hollie."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"You are so full of it." And I'm more convinced than ever that he's in love with my best friend. Unfortunately, I'm also more convinced than ever that he'd lose his mind if he knew the way Atlas talked to me on the phone last night.
Atlas wouldn't have to worry about the concussion ending his season. I'm pretty sure Jordan would do it on principal. If that happens, there may not be a future in the AHL for him. That's the kind of pull my brother has.
I can't let that happen.
Chapter Five
Atlas
"Cheesus Thrist," I groan, reaching blindly for a pillow as the alarm clock screams like a banshee, far too early to be polite. My head pounds. My tongue feels cloven to the roof of my mouth. In short, I feel like I drank my weight in vodka last night. When you're as big as I am, it's a lot of fucking vodka.
Unfortunately for me, I didn't drink a single drop.
I'm lust drunk, love stoned, and sleep deprived. My sweet little Temptation ran through my mind all fucking night, leaving my cock hard and aching. Sleeping with a steel rod between your legs is next to impossible.
My fingers close around the edge of a pillowcase. I hoist it, sending the soft missile whipping across the room toward my alarm clock. It slams into the table, sending everything on top crashing to the floor.
The alarm squawks one final time and goes blessedly silent.
Finally.
I drag the blanket back over my head. My eyes drift closed.
"Pick up the phone, your bro is calling you. Pick up the phone, your bro is calling you!" my phone sings. "Your phone, your phone, your bro is on the phone!"
I add a pillow to the blanket covering my head. Maybe if I suffocate and die, Coach will call off our game in New Mexico. Spending two days on a bus with our driver—who I'm not even convinced has a license to operate a Tonka truck, let alone a passenger bus—doesn't sound like a good time to me right now.
The phone stops…and immediately starts blaring again. Change of plans. I can't suffocate and die until I kill Colter for fucking with my phone. I know it was him. He's the only asshole on the team always messing with our shit.
Snatching the pillow off my head, I grab my phone and sit upright. My head swims as my skull plays ping pong with my brain. I slap the screen of the phone to answer, pressing the speaker button.
"I hate you," I mutter. "It's too goddamn early for your shit, Colter."
"Good morning to you too, Sunshine," he says with a laugh.
"How are you functioning?"
"Uh, I don't have a concussion, and I didn't bet a professional bartender that I could outdrink her?"
"Who the fuck did that?"
"Devlin."
Well, now he's got my attention.
"Did he win?"
"She's in her late fifties and she's been bartending she since was twenty-two. What do you think?"