Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Just because you’re married to one doesn’t make you an expert,” I say.
“I’ve spent time with Matt’s entire team. Trust me, there are more egos and diva attitudes in the NFL than on RuPaul’s Drag Race. Have fun with that.” He walks away, but I call after him.
“Hockey players aren’t like football players though.”
I screwed up, and I need to explain, but Ollie will take it okay, right?
All I get is a laugh in return.
Shit.
Noah may have a point. As I wait by the player’s entry at the Dragons arena, I get more glares than smiles. It’s no doubt because of my press pass. Or maybe they’re wondering why I’m not with the rest of the “vultures” who are here to report on the morning skate. The team plays Toronto tomorrow night, and if they win, they’re going to the playoffs, which will be the first time they’ve made it in the past five years.
I’m supposed to write an article today on who looks hungry on the ice, who’s going to kill it, and who’s going to choke.
The only way I’ll be able to write the article is if Ollie doesn’t kill me. And with the way he stalls in his tracks with a murderous glare as he sees me, I think killing me might be high on his list of priorities.
“Can we talk?” I ask.
“I don’t talk to reporters.” Even though he looks forlorn, he pushes past me with angry steps.
I chase after him, the slick floor beneath my feet making squeaky noises from my dress shoes. “Are you sure that’s how you want to play it?”
Shit, that came out as a threat.
Way to go, Lennon.
Ollie spins on his heel, and his meaty hand grabs my upper arm. He pushes me down the corridor, his grip getting tighter with each step.
My stomach does a stupid fluttery thing at his touch—even if it is rough. “You do realize I’m the one who wanted to talk, right? You don’t have to drag me. Not that I mind the manhandling …”
Wrong thing to say.
He shoves me into the room where press conferences are held after games and closes the door behind him. In his defense, he probably didn’t use a lot of force to push me, but he needs to be more careful with those guns of his.
His gear bag drops to the ground, and he stalks toward me.
Ollie’s intimidating with his size and large biceps, his short-sleeved T-shirt showing those sexy-as-fuck arms covered in tats. I want to run my tongue over them while my hands weave through his ash-blond hair, which always looks wet. With sweat, with gel, I don’t know, but I also don’t care, because damn, he’s hot.
What is wrong with me? He looks like he wants to kill me, and here I am wondering what he tastes like?
“What do you want?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“Right now?” I croak. Does he know I’m thinking about licking him?
“Money? Paying me the courtesy of warning me before publicly outing me? What? Why are you here?”
Right. No thinking about licking the hockey god.
“I’m covering the Dragons for the playoffs.” I’m proud any sound comes out at all.
An undignified grunt falls from Ollie’s mouth. “Of course, you are.”
“And I want to let you know I won’t say anything. Or print anything. About any of it. I want to support gay men in sports. Not ruin them.”
He looks confused for a second. “So, you’re not here for money?”
My eyes narrow. “Don’t you think if I was going to bribe you I would’ve done it by now?”
Ollie shrugs. “Maybe you ran out of money or lost your job or are desperate, I don’t know. All I know is a piece of shit article is written about me, and then I’m traded, and this uppity, pompous reporter won’t leave me or my career alone. Then it turns out that reporter is you. You’ve been making money off me for months, so maybe you’re getting greedy now.”
He has a right to be pissed, but that still doesn’t stop irrationality making me mouth off over my articles.
“My articles are not shit. They’ve all said you have potential.”
“You said I was hiding behind Tommy. And you’re the one person outside my family, Ash, and Tommy who knows I’m …”
The guy I met six months ago didn’t hesitate in saying he’s gay. This guy? He’s the angry jock I expected him to be when I found out who he was, so I don’t know why I’m disappointed.
“Can you even say the word?” I say and then tell myself to shut up. Taunting him isn’t a good idea.
His demeanor might be casual, but the vein in his forehead and the quick pulse in his thick neck says he’s freaking out on the inside. “Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay. You should know from when we met I have no issues saying it or accepting it. It’s the world who has an issue with who I am, not me.”