Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“No, man, it’s a bear claw. Can’t you tell?” He lifted his arm, exposing his rather fragrant pit and gestured to the blob of black spidery inkwork.
“I see it,” I lied.
“Love this thing. I’m getting one for my ass too. On each cheek.” Of course, he stood and dropped his towel, mooning everyone in the vicinity.
Rude. But all things considered, it was a nice tush.
I averted my gaze quickly. Smithton was a progressive institution, but as an undersized gay man in a room full of testosterone-laden giants, I didn’t want to get caught staring at Arlo’s beefy buns.
The beast of a man at the neighboring locker smacked Arlo with his towel. If memory served, his name was Carson. He was as thick as his teammate all over, albeit much better looking—like Superman, but with dark-blond hair and blue eyes.
Carson growled in what I thought was a chivalrous attempt to admonish Arlo’s impetuous bare booty shake. However, he ruined his momentary good guy status by flexing his biceps and yelling, “Smithton Bears, rawr!”
I winced as one might when a giant roars in one’s face, and again when the entire team, in various forms of undress, joined in. The deafening noise reverberated off the lockers like an off-key battle cry.
I shared a glance with Robin, tilting my chin meaningfully. It was time to make an escape.
We backed out of the room stealthily and hightailed it down the corridor. Neither of us said a word until we reached the parking lot.
“You got roared on. I think I saw fangs.” Robin made a face and gave a theatrical shiver that sent his unruly hair into his eyes.
I blanched. “Did you get any good photos?”
“Naturally,” he bragged.
I didn’t doubt it. Robin was a fabulous photographer—like, truly amazing.
He was a tall wiry senior with floppy brown hair, freckles, and glasses. We’d met at orientation the summer we’d each committed to attending Smithton and had been the best of friends since.
Fun fact: Robin was my first “employee,” and along with my Aunt Kay, he was one of my biggest cheerleaders. He was also an unrepentant geek with a quirky sense of humor and a penchant for classic video games and photography.
I pulled my keys from my bag and aimed the fob at my Mini Cooper. “I’ll go through them tonight and come up with titillating commentary to complement the belching tattooed giant’s words of wisdom. Wish me luck. This may take every brain cell I have in my arsenal.”
“That was painful,” he conceded, chuckling.
I nodded in agreement. “I have a lead on a retired Smithton professor who just published a cookbook—all desserts. A cooking-class segment could be fun, and God knows I could use a break from athletes.”
The problem with good friends was that they tended to know you too well. Robin narrowed his eyes. “What happened with the hockey player?”
“Let’s just say, I like football players better.”
“That bad?”
“Worse,” I grumbled. “Ty Czerniak hates me.”
Robin snorted. “He doesn’t hate you.”
“Oh, yes, he does. You should have seen the way he looked at me. Pure contempt with a side of malice. I don’t think I’ve ever been hated to my face. I didn’t like it.”
“Poor baby. What are you going to do?”
I shrugged helplessly. “What can I do? He’s holding a grudge for his former teammate who forgave me a year and a half ago. I don’t want to dredge up that ugly chapter again. It was horrifying the first go-around.”
“A Smithton senior signing with a professional team is big news, Walker. Are we even relevant if we don’t report it?”
“But if I do report it and Ty finds out, which at a school the size of a postage stamp, he certainly will…he might accuse me of using his name for ratings and tear me apart, limb by limb. For real.” I tossed my bag into the back seat and leaned against my car.
“Sounds dramatic,” he deadpanned.
“Maybe so, but I’ve never had anyone look like they wished I fell off a cliff and hit a hundred boulders before landing facedown on concrete.”
“So what are you going to do? Give up?”
I sighed. “Of course not. Perseverance is part of the job. I’ll try again. If the answer is still no, I’ll accept it…along with the sad truth that hockey and I will never have a good relationship.”
Robin patted my shoulder condescendingly. “There, there. If you ask me, what we have here is a collision of prejudices—your personal hockey angst and his grudge.”
I crossed my arms defensively—my way of admitting he was right. “Any suggestions?”
“Make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
“That’s very mafia chic of you, and very off-brand for me,” I snarked.
“Maybe, but everyone has a price.”
“We’re college students, Robby. We don’t pay for interviews.”
“You could make a trade, a barter of some kind.”
“If your mind has wandered to the gutter, steer it to safety. There’s no way and no chance for carnal persuasion in this situation.”