Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Chase snorts drunkenly. “You do, huh? You think others haven’t tried? You think I haven’t tried?”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” I say quickly. “But I think I have something to offer. I’m good at what I do.”
“You always were,” he mutters. “That was never the problem.”
My heart stumbles. Then what was? I take a calming breath. “Listen, I know you hate me…”
He turns. “You know that, huh?” His eyes may be squinty tonight, but they’re still a startling shade of blue. “You got me all figured out?”
“Well, yeah. You’ve ignored all my messages.”
His forehead crinkles. Then he looks away. “Give me a break,” he says carefully, like a man trying not to slur. “I got a lot going on. Go home, Zoe. You can’t fix me. Maybe nobody can.”
Oh, Chase. I’m searching for the right thing to say when a balled-up napkin hits Chase in the back. “Yo!” one of the beer bellies calls. “You ever gonna face us? Fucking coward.”
I glance over my shoulder and see all their anger focused on Chase, and a shiver runs down my spine. “What do they want?”
“To beat Trenton,” he mumbles. “Too late.”
“They’ve been at it for an hour,” the bartender says sourly. “They won’t leave until Chase leaves. So how ’bout you cut me some slack and let the nice lady hail you a cab?”
“Nah, fuck them,” Chase says. “Fuck the haters. Fuck the team. Fuck the fucking fuckery.”
“I completely agree,” Harp says, polishing a glass. “Still, you’re going to have to fuck all the fuckery from a new location.”
To my horror, the beer bellies keep advancing. The napkin thrower walks right over to the bar to yell at Chase from point-blank range. “I’m talkin’ ta you,” he thunders. “What do you have to say to your fans?”
“Chase,” I prod. “How about an Uber? What’s your address?”
But he’s not listening to me. He spins around on the barstool and rises with more agility than you’d expect from a drunk man. But the expression on his face is thunderous. “Fans, huh? You trying to start something?”
The boozer in the hockey jersey takes another step forward. He has a bad mustache, like an overgrown caterpillar. “So now we exist? Like you actually give a crap? Maybe if you paid this much attention tonight in Trenton, you wouldna lost to a suckass team.”
The bartender makes a noise of exasperation. “You’ve been talking shit about him since the minute he walked in here, just looking for a fight. Shut your face already or I’ll call the cops.”
Cops? A shiver runs through me.
“Somebody needs to light a fire under his ass,” Mr. Mustache sneers.
“And you’re an expert, huh?” Chase rasps. “How’s your slap shot?”
The rest of the beer bellies laugh from their booth. “He’s got a point!” someone yells.
Mr. Mustache reddens. “You rich fucker,” he growls at Chase. “Can’t take a joke.”
“A joke? What joke?” Chase says, his voice full of disgust. “You been chirping me all night. You’re not even good at it.”
The big man’s face turns an uglier shade of red. “You’re a fucking disgrace.”
God, I’m so tired of entitled men. “And you’re not?” I demand. “I give you two minutes facing down Trenton before you’re running home to your mommy.”
There’s a wave of laughter from around the bar. “Sick burn!” someone hollers.
And now this dude is clenching his fists. “Stupid bitch. They’re paying him five mill to cough up the puck to a third-rate team. Merritt is a fucking joke.” He takes another aggressive step forward. “A goddamn waste of space.”
Chase goes rock solid beside me. “What the hell did you say?”
Oh no. My stomach curdles like bad milk. Acting on impulse, I step between the two men. “Back off. Chase Merritt is never a waste of space.”
The thrum of laughter makes me feel powerful, at least for a second. But then things seem to happen fast. First, the fan’s heavy-lidded eyes flare with anger. Then his meaty arm rises to sweep me out of his way so he can get back to accosting Chase.
I brace myself for impact. But when it comes, it’s not the impact I’m expecting. Drunk or not, Chase has the million-dollar reflexes of a professional athlete. He reaches around my body and pulls me in. My back collides with his strong chest.
Oh. Oh, wow. Just as my muddled brain processes the scent of his cologne, Chase uses his other arm to block a punch from his worst fan. He just sort of snatches the guy’s arm out of the air. Then, using his grip, he gives the guy a push.
It’s just a schoolyard shove. But the fan is unsteady on his feet, probably from drinking beers for six hours straight. His big body tilts like a bowling pin. I watch in slow motion as he begins to teeter. And then he falls down. All the way down to the sticky bar floor.