Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“It’s not all about the equipment though, is it?” Dalton asks, eyeing me. “He’s going to be dealing with the team as well. Do you really think you’ll be able to handle testosterone-filled divas?”
That turn of phrase reminds me of the guys I normally sleep with, and I can’t help a quick laugh from slipping out. “Yes, the divas will be fine. The equipment will be fine. I know what all the thing-a-ma-bobs are called, and when I’m counting, I can do this thing called adding and subtracting—it’s wild.” Three jocks stare back at me, not appreciating my teasing. “Fine. I’ve been top of literally all my classes since the seventh grade, and as much as I’ve tried not to, I know hockey and I know what’s needed. I can handle the jocks, because I really don’t give a damn about what a bunch of athletes think of me, and if any of them get too much, I’ll play the daddy card.”
Dad sighs like he was really hoping I’d be on my best behavior. But despite me being flippant and not wanting to be here, I do plan on taking it seriously. It’s one season, and then I’ll be released into the wild again.
“Come on, the team will start arriving soon.” Dad stands, and Beck moves to follow him.
I’m about to head out the door too when Dalton calls me back.
“Coach Hogan speaks highly of you.”
“I should hope so. He’s my dad. It would be kinda shitty of him to talk down about me.”
For some reason that makes Dalton hesitate. “Well, umm, I just want to make sure you really do know the ins and outs of this job.”
“Lug equipment around, order new equipment, and have twenty-five hockey players treat me like their bellboy. How hard could it be?”
“There’s other things. Like …” Coach Dalton averts his gaze. “Keeping the players in line. Making sure they’re not sneaking out of the hotel at away games. Telling us if you know of any drug use or rule breaking.”
My eyes narrow. “I didn’t realize being a snitch was in the job description.” That’s exactly what I need, angry jocks trying to find the guy who ratted them out for having fun.
“My brother Asher plays on the team. He’s an excellent player but a bit of a loose cannon. The problem is your dad won’t keep him on the roster if he gets into shit.”
“That’s not my problem. That sounds like yours.”
“Like he listens to me about anything,” Coach Dalton says. “Look, all I’m asking is you keep an eye on him and tell me if he’s doing anything he shouldn’t be.”
“I mean this in the kindest way possible, but why would I want to do that?”
“You said you don’t care what a bunch of hockey players think of you. Did you mean that?”
“Well, yeah …”
“Then you’re not going to care about locking him in his room if you have to.”
“I might not, but last I checked, the law is pretty clear when it comes to holding someone captive.”
He finally manages a small smile, but even that looks like it takes effort. When I look at Dalton, all I see is bone-deep exhaustion. From his tired eyes to the slump in his shoulders … It makes me feel sorry for the man.
Sorry enough to do as he asks? I’m not sure if he’s lying about equipment managers taking on that sort of warden role or not, but am I willing to do it anyway?
“I’m kind of out of options here, and I don’t know what to do anymore when it comes to him.” Dalton’s voice is soft. No, it’s downright defeated.
One more look into Dalton’s expressive green eyes, and I have my answer.
“Fine,” I huff. “I’ll attempt to rein in the wayward son. But I’m not making any promises.”
“No, totally.” He runs a hand back through his hair. “Just knowing there’s one extra set of eyes on him helps.”
How bad can this guy be?
I get my answer half an hour later when a younger version of Coach Dalton stomps into the locker room a few minutes late. They both have the same dark hair and green eyes, but Coach Dalton has a few days’ growth on his jaw and chin. His brother is clean-shaven. He throws his bag into his cubby with a loud thump, then drops onto the bench like he doesn’t care that every person in the room is staring at him.
He’d probably be good-looking if he wasn’t scowling, but with a single, menacing look, one thing is clear:
Asher Dalton is trouble.
Already I can tell that I’m not going to be looking out for the guy—I’m going to be babysitting him.
And let’s face it, probably failing.
3
Asher
“Sloppy!” my brother yells when my attempt to make a pass fails to hit my teammate’s blade.