Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I slam my fist onto the bar, making my beer glass rattle.
At this point, I’m fully invested in my meltdown.
God it feels good, hands gesturing wildly, legs are bouncing in frustration. Brows in my hairline. Angry mouth agape.
“I think number thirty should buy you a drink after this,” the bartender teases.
I think you should stop talking to me, I want to retort.
Seriously. This guy is so annoying.
“Maybe thirty should go home and take a nap!” I grind out, frustrated. “GET IT!” I shout, leaning forward as if my glare could get these boys into action. “You’ve got this! One good shot! One!”
The bar goes quiet around me, but I’m too caught up in the game to notice.
“Move your feet!” I raise up out of my barstool again. “Oh my God, Montagalo, this is hockey, not a freaking stroll through the park! What are you doing?!”
I rise to my feet, ready to throw myself into the game as if I could magically teleport onto the ice. Then I sit back down.
Then I stand again.
I want to pull my hair out.
The bartender laughs like he’s watching the best comedy show of his life, but I ignore him, too focused on the screen to give him my attention. My body sways left, then right—then left again—mimicking the movement of the puck.
I’m completely absorbed in the play.
“Dang,” a new voice chimes in, commenting on my hockey-fueled dramatics, and I glance over at a young woman who’s pulled herself up to the bar right next to me. Her hair is down but she’s wearing a ball cap and hoodie. “Good game?”
“Depends on your definition of good. Gio Montagalo has literally shit the bed.”
She laughs and taps on the bar top to get the bartender's attention, giving him her order.
“I take it you’re a fan?” she asks once she’s settled, setting her cell on the bar top in front of her.
I give her a half smile. “Oh, you know, a casual observer who’s one missed block from losing her shit.”
The girl grins. “I think I’d pay to see that.”
“Trust me," the bartender interjects himself into our conversation. "So would I."
The newcomer smiles at him, lifting her glass before taking a sip.
“Has she been like this the entire time?” She nods toward me and they proceed to discuss me as if I weren’t sitting two feet away with a perfectly good set of ears.
“Absolutely,” he says, grinning as he rests his elbows on the counter. “In fact, she’d be there in person but gave up her seats for true love.”
I roll my eyes. “Please. It’s not that deep. I’m a decent friend.”
The girl raises an eyebrow. “True love? Do tell.”
“Okay, fine. I gave up my season tickets tonight so my friend could propose on the Jumbotron. That’s it.” I take a sip from my glass and continue ranting. “Meanwhile, Montagalo is single-handedly ruining my night. Does he know he’s supposed to stop pucks? Or is this some avant-garde performance art where defense doesn’t exist?”
She chuckles and raises her glass. “Here’s to being a good friend. And to that rat bastard Montagalo pulling his head out of his ass and doing his job.”
“Amen!” I clink my glass with hers. “I’ll drink to that—but I’m going to need something stronger if I’m going to survive this game.”
The clock ticks closer to the third period. Closer to the proposal.
She takes another sip from her glass, eyes fastened to my face. “At least you’re not doomed to suffer through an entire season watching at home.”
“No, thank God. I’m back in my rightful spot for the next game.” I shake my head. “Seriously though—if Montagalo continues to play like crap, I’ll storm the locker room and give him a piece of my mind.”
The girl bursts into an evil laugh, tipping her head. “I can totally picture you barging into the locker room while they’re all half naked.”
Half naked?
Had not considered that.
I nod solemnly. “I’d be like, ‘Listen, Montagalo, your job is simple: stop the bloody effing puck. I don’t care if you have to grow extra hands–you have one job and that job is to get after it.” Clap. “Do.” Clap. “Your.” Clap. “Job!’”
She nearly chokes on her drink, laughing harder. “I’d pay good money to see you versus Montagalo. He looks like the kind of guy who needs to be brought down a peg or two.”
“Damn straight.” I take another sip, feeling validated and righteous. “He’s way too cocky for someone who’s spent the past two games playing with his head shoved firmly up his ass.”
Granted, it’s a good-looking ass. Not the point.
She agrees easily. “Yeah. He looks like he’s a giant asshole, doesn’t he?”
Tall. Dark.
So handsome if he walked through those doors I would retract everything I said about him, fall to my knees and—
“Have you seen his social media?” she asks, yanking me from my dangerous train of thought. “It’s all pictures of him volunteering. The whole page! Like, is anyone buying the ‘nice guy’ act? He’s probably totally banging every girl who so much as breathes near him.”