Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
I bet Gilly will look even more beautiful pregnant.
Holding our first born.
Second.
Third?
Is three too many?
Not enough?
I could do four.
Hell, even five.
Hennington drags her hands slowly down her brown skinned face prior to grousing, “Do you fucking pheasants just get together for a post season conference call or an off-season round of golf and discuss new and fucking unfathomable ways to get me to go fucking gray before I’m fucking fifty?!”
“I bet it’s a group text,” playfully interjects her younger husband, Brendan “Bricks” Brickley, one of our equipment managers, between sips of his ice-cold beer.
She slowly angles her head in his direction while the hula group continues practicing a few feet away. “Do I look remotely amused, Baby Bottle Pop?”
Despite the shrill whistle on the play, he open mouth chuckles.
Continues grinning.
Enjoys another sip of his drink.
Guess bud really enjoys living that Bon Jovi prayer life.
“Tell me,” Hennington commands on a swift snap of her face back our direction, “that Blanc knows about this.”
“I bet you a dinner at Hell’s Kitchen during our anniversary trip that he doesn’t,” Bricks cheekily mutters.
“I don’t wanna eat thousand-dollar cat food wrapped in mushroom bread-”
“How. Dare. You.”
“And I don’t want you to be right.” She jabs her pointed, pissed off finger closer to my face than I care for. “Tell me, he’s wrong, tendy.” The digit creeps higher. “Tell me, Blanc knows that you’re wheeling his little sister and is fucking fine with it.”
My mouth cracks open to answer yet somehow opts to investigate instead. “How do you know she’s his sister?”
“More jokes?!” Hot Rocket shrieks at the same time she flings her hands into the air. “I’m sorry, is this the cheeky, Dalvegan green bikini I got from Jokes “R” Us and not Clara’s Culotte?” Her husband does his best to swallow his snickers alongside another gulp of beer as she squawks, “She’s the fucking team dentist, you pineapple shorts wearing pigeon!”
Technically, they’re just triangles.
But I could rock a pair of pineapples.
Purple tank top.
Pair it with my straw hat.
Maybe something for my next date?
You know.
Assuming I live to see it.
“Forgive her,” Bricks mirthfully interjects. “The Great American Bulldog has the day off, so there’s no one other than me to remind her of the numerous legal – and financial – reasons she shouldn’t say half the shit that she currently is.”
“Why exactly does Adelstein have the day off?” I innocently ponder.
“She wasn’t supposed to be needed,” he replies, humor loudly lingering in his tone. “This little shindig is for players and on ice staff only.”
“Right…” my head tilts challenging to one side, “and that means…you technically aren’t even supposed to be here as the owner.”
“GreatOneHaveMercy, that had to sound better in your fucking head than out loud,” bites Hennington.
“It did,” immediately escapes during a frantic nod. “It really did.”
“She’s the owner and his wife,” Gilly meekly reminds. “Her presence – while a favorite gasp worthy moment in a telenovela – isn’t actually that wild and crazy considering the circumstances.”
Fuckme…that’s a fact.
We’re talkin’ Smoky Robinson being crucial to Motown’s success level.
We’re talkin’ Jacques Plante being one of the first goalies to consistently wear a face mask.
We’re talkin’ coffee cherries being the fruit that houses the coffee beans we roast.
It’s a truthbombsky tune I don’t wanna hear but can’t turn off.
“And as for the dentist comment – although I’m an endodontist which is technically a dentist that has additional years of advanced specialized training –” Gilly lets her gaze gravitate up to me, “the Dragons recommend my practice to all the players who need our services. We’re the ones who handle any and all mouth related injuries or issues – including supplying the team with a team dentist – which Bull is, but he has no additional accreditations. The practice also custom fits the team’s gumshields – or mouthguards as they’re colloquially called – especially for the rookies and fresh trades, something else that is part of Bull’s responsibility as the actual team dentist. I’m just…his boss. And have agreed to fill in if ever necessary, but I doubt it’ll ever be necessary.”
I love that she has her own career.
Her own passion.
And if it weren’t for “Mama Say Knock You Out” vibes Hot Rocket is currently sending me, I’d admit that.
Out loud.
Right now.
I always want Gilly to know how incredible I think she is.
“Plus,” the lei wearing vixen beside me struggles not to cringe, “she’s come to a few of the get-togethers that I’ve helped Mari host for the WAGs of the coaching and management staff who crave the consanguinity that the Slayers have that they’re not invited to since they’re technically not Slayers because they’re not with players.”
“I didn’t know Coach’s wife did that.”
“And I didn’t know,” our team owner mockingly begins, “that you were wheeling her sister-in-law.”
“I’m not,” leaves me too quickly. “I mean not yet?” Scratching the back of my neck mindlessly occurs. “It’s not that we haven’t thought about it-”