Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Either I really needed to get laid, or there was something wrong with me.
Thankfully, Trinsky was oblivious.
“Oh, c’mon, man. Don’t be a buzzkill…or an erection killer,” he snickered.
I glared. “Go. To. Sleep. And don’t touch your fucking dick.”
He lifted his hands and waggled his fingers. “I was messin’ with you, Milligan. I wasn’t actually going to jerk myself a soda.”
I should have turned the lantern off, rolled over, and put an end to a nowhere discussion with the NHL’s biggest moron, but my gaze snagged on his puckered nipples. I sucked on my tongue, mentally imagining what it would feel like to touch a man.
Not Trinsky, of course. Just…someone with male parts. I knew I was bi, but I hadn’t done much exploring in gay waters. And I had no idea why I was thinking about that right now.
“Uh…good. Keep it that way,” I replied gruffly.
“The problem with you is that you can’t take a joke. Don’t sweat it—I’ll wait till you go to sleep to beat off.”
I slid deeper into my sleeping bag. “Stop being so…you.”
Trinsky reached for the lantern but dropped his hand and narrowed his eyes. “You mean awesome? I’ll try…if you stop being such an uptight asswipe.”
“Right. I think I like you better when you’re joking about your masturbation habits. Now, please shut the fuck up. Today was brutal. I need sleep.”
“Same.” He flicked the light off. “How many times have you been camping in these woods?”
“Dozens.”
“Have you ever come across a bear?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Gulp. Big, small, what are they like?”
“Are you scared?” I teased. Again, I should have rolled over, but…this was harmless chatter. Maybe it would lull the beast to sleep.
“Not if you’re here to protect me.”
“Hmph.”
“I never went camping when I was a kid,” he said softly. “I know this weekend raises money for a good cause and all, but I can’t help thinking these little shits probably don’t appreciate catered lunches, dinners, and hang time with professional athletes. This is uber-elite pampering…except for the threat of bears.”
I agreed with him, and that was another one for the weird column. “Nature is the great equalizer.”
“A thousand percent. It’s why I surf.”
I’d tried to surf in Bali and had almost been taken out by a wave. It was humbling for sure and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that it had felt like I’d had a near brush with death, but I caught myself. No sharing major life events with the enemy.
“Why aren’t you surfing now?” I snapped. Great. Way to sound like a petulant teenager, Milligan.
“I’m here for PR reasons. You know, to save your ass.”
“Excuse me?”
“I got you viral, and now everyone wants to know what makes serious Jake Milligan tick. I don’t know if you’ve checked recently, but my agent told me you gained a hundred thousand followers within a week of that podcast. Something about great timing since you’re in contract negotiations too. He thinks I’m good for your career, so…you’re welcome.”
And just like that, I was wide awake, sputtering indignantly. “You fucking pompous piece of lowlife shit. You’re literally the worst thing possible for my career. I don’t want my name associated with yours…ever. Good, bad, or anything in between. Dirty playing and grandiose posturing is the Trinsky brand, not mine.”
“No, your brand is boring, efficient skating, and puck hogging. Emphasis on bor—”
I flung my pillow at him. “I do not hog the fucking puck.”
Trinsky growled as he sat up. “Your most exciting recent game was the one where you limped off the ice with blood on your face. You showed some passion out there, like you gave a crap. Your problem last season was that your team is both too old and too young. The old guys are slow and the new kids don’t feed you shots exactly the way you like it, so you lose and you’re used to winning. And what do you change? Nothing. You’re an ice man out there, trying to put your team on your shoulders. It doesn’t work. But if you had blood dripping down your chin every night at least it would look like you gave a shit and—”
This time, I flung myself at him, scrambling out of my sleeping bag and slamming Trinsky flat on his back. The element of surprise in the dark tent worked in my favor. He fell with an “Oomph” as I straddled his torso, wrapping my fingers around his throat.
He grabbed my wrists and pushed, rolling us sideways and tangling our legs in the sleeping bag. We knocked the lantern on its side, grunting and growling like maniacs in our quest to come out on top. I hadn’t been in an honest-to-God, pull-no-punches wrestling match off the ice in years. And as Trinsky had so obnoxiously observed, I wasn’t known for being a fighter on the ice, either. He was.