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)
If it weren’t for Lennon and Jet, I might not have gotten away from her so easily without blurting out I’m gay …
Oh, fuck. I told Jet I’m gay.
I tell myself not to panic, because it’s Jet. He’s Matt Jackson’s little brother. He’d know what kind of position I’m in.
Doesn’t help settle my stomach, though.
The sun streams into Lennon’s bedroom, where they dumped me because it was the closest room off the stairs and they were exhausted from hauling my ass up them.
I try to psych myself up to go out there and face the fallout from last night, but a note on the bedside table catches my eye. It sits on an open laptop with an arrow pointing to the screen. It reads: Truce? Click here—L.
I hit the space bar, and the computer comes back to life from power-saving mode, opening to Lennon’s article that was posted this morning by his magazine.
For the first time in my history of nonexistent hangovers, I might actually be sick.
Strömberg Trade Saves Dragons.
While we won’t see an end of speculation over the success of Strömberg’s trade until the end of the playoffs, it could have been all over last night with the Dragons’ epic battle to take Toronto down.
The Dragons have had a rocky season, beginning strong but suffering losses due to injuries, trades, and obvious tension on the ice.
Last night’s game was brutal, ending in a desperate fight to stay alive. In the last second of the last minute in an overtime period, Ollie Strömberg skated like his life depended on it.
Having been traded from Boston earlier this season, he had the need to prove himself to his new team. Without the overshadowing Novak figure dimming his light, Strömberg proved his rising stardom worthy.
My heart beats erratically the entire time I read—which takes longer than usual thanks to the whole squinting-at-the-bright-light-of-the-laptop thing.
He still doesn’t get it, but he’s right about one thing. My teammates are not on the same wavelength. Last night’s game never should’ve gone into overtime, and even though we’re taught not to play the blame game, all of us question what went wrong and when.
It could be internally debated all morning without coming up with an answer.
I can’t delay having to go outside this room and face both Lennon and Jet no matter how much I want to, so I find my clothes on the floor and recoil when I remember both Jet and Lennon undressing me down to my boxers while I was dead weight. Even my dick couldn’t get excited about them taking my clothes off because I was too drunk, but it definitely doesn’t have that problem now at the memory.
I palm my cock to try to squash my growing erection. Stupid dick getting excited over Lennon, and it’s not like it’s the first time it’s happened in the past six months.
I try to tell myself this morning’s hard-on is over Jet, but my brain and my body know I’m lying. Jet’s objectively hot, but the thought of going there? I shudder. I like my men old enough to drink.
It’s because you haven’t had sex in a year, I remind myself. Yep, let’s go with that excuse.
While I get dressed and wait for my cock to deflate, I can’t help snooping around Lennon’s room. The furniture’s rich intricacies and meticulous matching design is old New York meets modern. From the slate feature wall behind the bed to the heavy wooden vanity and drawers, everything looks like it cost a shit ton money. The only thing giving any indication of Lennon’s personality is the pile of clothes hanging out of a suitcase.
I know how that is—traveling from city to city and living out of a bag.
While I contemplate how much trouble I’d get in if I went through Lennon’s things—curiosity about the guy is a bitch—yelling from the hallway catches my attention.
“What in the ever lovin’ fuck’s goin’ on in here?” The Southern accent is deeper than Jet’s. Sounds like Matt.
“Whoa,” another voice says. “You two are fucking?”
When I open the door to see what’s going on, I immediately regret it. Across the hall, where Matt and Noah stand in the open doorway, Jet and Lennon climb out of bed wearing nothing but boxer briefs. They scramble for their clothes, but I can’t stop staring at Lennon’s long and lean form. He’s toned enough to have a little bit of definition in his abs and pecs.
More memories from last night haunt me. Jet and Lennon holding hands in the bar, the way they stuck by each other’s side all night, and then when I said Lennon has a nice ass …
Jet agreed about Lennon’s ass, and the more I think about it, I remember it being flirty and a hell of a lot smoother than when I’d said it.