Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“Aww, so sweet,” someone says.
They are. And I’m happy for them. Truly, and not only because it means another paycheck for me but because everyone deserves love. But what’s that saying? Always the bridesmaid, never the bride? How about always the ring designer, never even a bridesmaid? Or hell, a girlfriend.
Because as someone whose bread and butter is engagements, it’s rare for me to get a guy to commit to taking me on more than a first date. It’s not like my standards are ridiculously high either. The bar’s low—like on the floor—but even so, after a few dates, most guys simply quit texting or calling, poofing into thin air like ghosts of dates past.
I don’t know why. Best guess? It’s probably that weird thing again. Or maybe that most guys hear “ring designer” and think “ready to get hitched,” which I’m not. I’m way too busy focusing on my business, and I don’t have the time or inclination to be desperately wedding-marching through my days. But once PLDesigns is where I want it to be, I’ll put real effort into my dating life, and then hopefully I’ll meet someone who sweeps me off my feet intentionally, not trips me like the stupid rock I stumble over as I start back down the hill.
Chapter 2
Griffin
“Fuck yeah!” Brody booms across the locker room, ecstatic. His name’s not actually Brody; it’s Jordan, which isn’t much better, but he’s quite the bro type, and in hockey, that’s all it takes to get a nickname. Brody flexes and roars out his overhyped excitement before holding up his hands for high fives from everyone around him.
When he gets to me, I reluctantly concede. “I know it’s the orgasmic climax of your mind’s daily highlight reel, but don’tcha think you’re overdoing it for a good practice?”
Because that’s all it was—practice. It’s not like we won a big game or even nailed an important play.
“Good? That was epic, bruh,” he argues, sounding more like a caricature of a California surfer than the upper-crust Upstate New Yorker he is. “And you said ‘orgasm.’” He guffaws, screwing up his face like he’s in pain as he makes a jerking motion near his crotch, which is a visual I do not want.
I’d call him a literal child, but he’s twenty-four. He’s also a pro athlete, and unfortunately, the stereotype that we all stop maturing around age sixteen exists for a reason—it’s true more often than not. Thankfully, at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, I don’t fit the stereotype . . . usually. Or I try not to.
I don’t answer, not wanting to engage with a young pup who wouldn’t know epic if it snuck up and kneed him in the balls. Turning to face my locker, I go about the business of shedding my gear. With every movement, I evaluate my body for any tightness or strain that’ll need to be addressed before tomorrow’s game with a trainer, the massage therapist, or in the cold plunge tub. I’m in the prime of my career, playing better than I ever have, but there’s no resting on my laurels when I’m the muscle of the team, so every twinge deserves attention.
Every time I skate onto the ice, I do so knowing it might be my last, because my role, beyond being a defender, is that of an enforcer. If there’s a brawl—and there’s always a brawl—it’ll be me mixing it up, throwing punches and trying to avoid the other team’s hothead or, worse, their enforcer. The fans love it when enforcers go after each other. The enforcers, not so much. Well, most of them. Me? I don’t mind it. The mano a mano physicality of it releases some darker feelings I’d rather handle with violence than something woo-woo like talk therapy.
Out of nowhere, a hand slams onto my shoulder with a meaty thud. I tense, every muscle instantly poised for action and my right hand already curling into a fist despite being among teammates, until I hear the voice that goes along with the hand. “Don’t be so rough on Brody. He’s just excited he made that shot on Howe.”
I frown at my best friend and teammate, Dominic. His nickname is Dom, not because it’s short for his actual name but because he dominates on the ice as the Ice Hawks’ left defenseman. “By ‘excited,’” I deadpan, making sure my voice is loud enough to carry over to Brody; he’s completed his victory lap of high fives and is now shedding his gear in some shitty makeshift version of a Magic Mike show, as if any of us want to see that, “you mean he’s like an ADHD-riddled puppy that’s jacked on espresso and booger sugar, right?”
I intend for it to be a cutting insult about the youngster, who can’t control his dick, his hockey stick, or his mouth, but Dom snorts out a laugh, which is agreement enough because he knows I’m right.