Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
It’s going to be up to me to get us all where we need to be, and that’s if I don’t panic myself. I was telling the truth about not having any skeletons in my closet, but that doesn’t mean I’m some relationship guru. To the contrary, I don’t have stories precisely because I haven’t found anyone who made me want to split my singular focus on hockey. But now, I have—Kayla.
So, yeah, no biggie—just me, an inexperienced guy nobody ever takes seriously, trying to get a damaged guy and a hard-headed woman to admit that we can make an admittedly nontraditional relationship work. Oh, and we all live very public lives. What could possibly go wrong?
“Did you text her?” I ask Riggs on Monday afternoon, wincing as the physical therapy assistant digs his little silver torture device into my hamstring. It needs a bit of extra attention after I strained it a couple of months ago during an overtime period, and that’s what the off-season is for—rest, recovery, rehabilitation beyond our usual season care. And Zeke’s the best, despite my currently wanting to stab him in the eye with that dull blade he’s pushing deeper into my hamstring to break up any knots.
Riggs cuts his eyes my way, his face showing no sign of pain even though another trainer is torturing his shoulder with the kind of deep tissue massage that hurts in order to heal. “Of course I did. Did you?”
“What’d you say?” He snorts out a laugh at my over-eager tone, and I can’t help but laugh at myself. “Yeah, I sound like a gossiping old granny wanting the tea. So spill it.”
“Good morning, beautiful,” he quotes, sounding like he thinks that’s Shakespearean-level poetry when it’s what any horny fourteen-year-old kid would text his first girlfriend.
“Seriously? That’s all the game you’ve got? That’s lame as fuck. Right, Zeke?” I get a quick nod of confirmation from him, though he’s probably not even really listening given he’s got one earbud in, listening to a podcast. And even if he were rapt at attention, he wouldn’t have an opinion on anything personal. That’s their job—they hear nothing, see nothing, and know nothing other than our physical therapy plans and their implementation. Unless we’re doing something detrimental to the team. Then, they’d be reporting directly to Coach in Monopoly fashion, a.k.a. without passing go or collecting two hundred dollars.
Riggs shrugs his good shoulder. “What’d you send her?”
“A picture of my morning wood with ‘thinking of you’ as the caption,” I say with a shit-eating grin.
“You did not!” Riggs snaps.
“Mmm, maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” I drawl out, waggling my brows. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I didn’t, but I’m not telling Riggs that. It’s good for him to get a little riled up sometimes, and I’ve decided that in this case, my mission is to get under his skin where Kayla is concerned so that he doesn’t try to play it aloof because, like Kayla, he’s at risk for a backslide too.
“Goddammit, Maddox. Don’t fuck this up for the both of us.”
Little does he know, I’m not fucking it up, I’m gonna fix it. The way I always do. It’s already working—he wants more with Kayla and me, the three of us as a unit.
Ha-ha… unit.
Hmm, maybe I really should send Kayla a picture of my dick?
“Pretty sure you’d be the one to do that. Trust me, I’ve got this all figured out.” I tap my temple reassuringly.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Aww, love you too.”
It’s nine o’clock at night and we’ve already pretended to watch a game replay, gone for a swim, and eaten a pizza each (a luxury we don’t indulge in during the season).
“Think we should call her or text her?” I ask, leaning toward Riggs like there might be someone to overhear me suggesting we do something stupid like knocking over a liquor store.
“We should give her some space to breathe. This weekend was a lot for her.” A lot for him is what he really means.
“Nah, space to breathe is space to panic. Nobody needs that.” I give him a pointed look, blatantly accusing him.
He takes a deep breath, attempting to demonstrate that he’s not panicking a bit, but I know him better than that. His inner voice isn’t particularly kind sometimes, telling him he’s going to be rejected so why even risk it? Still, I let him hide… for now.
“Heard. So should we text ‘you hungry?’ or ‘wanna fuck?’ If we go with the former, we could parlay that into bringing her dinner… and then fucking. If we try the latter, there’s a higher likelihood of getting a response because in her mind, it’s a safer approach.” I hold my hands up in front of me like I’m weighing both options.
Riggs closes his eyes, thinking. “Send her ‘you hungry?’ We could send her food if she hasn’t eaten already.”