Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Sneering at her champagne colored, sequins splattered, sleeveless mini dress covered back should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
Being able to tell her to her face that not flirting is a choice, that not having time to date is different than not being able to date, and that not spreading my legs for every man that makes at least a quarter of a million is what would actually make me happy.
Or…at least less irked.
I swallow my irritated grumbles, tighten my tiny clutch, and begin the hunt for the man I’m here to see.
The annual charity P.A.L. event – Players Across Leagues – is not so secretly my favorite to witness every year. There’s just something so awe-inspiring about seeing athletes from different sports from all around the world get together, drink, play, and help raise money for children who dream of doing what they do, but live in areas where it’s difficult to afford basic equipment and camps.
Typically, I just enjoy the shit from a distance.
A very far distance.
I scroll the paparazzi photos.
Check the soc’ tags.
See a photo from one of the Slayer’s – hockey wives or long-term girlfriends – when they’re waiting for their player to wrap up pracky.
I’ve never actually been.
And I never actually wanted to go.
I hate dressing up.
Fuck, I hate dresses.
In fact, my whole plan was to wear this bellbottom pants suit thing with a fancy sports bra, when the twin walked in and conned our mother into taking us shopping for this shit.
I swear, I’m only wearing this wannabe lingerie shit so that I don’t “embarrass” the family brand.
I may loathe my sibling – and all the silicone she is made of – but I love my parents and everything they’ve worked for as well as continue to work for.
Ugh.
Stupid loyalty trait.
That’s gotta be the reason why I don’t just pack up my shit and move to Switzerland.
I bet they’ve got some amazing beers too.
The first leg of my search leads me to making slow laps around the luxurious pool of the rented property where the event is being held. Despite no one being in it at the moment, I overhear a Green River Croc running back promising two scantily dressed women that they can all get in together soon enough and a Highland Hellcats’ point guard insisting to another that her bra and thong are more than sufficient for a quick dip.
My next branch of the hunt sends me past the outside bar to the nearest one inside, anxiously scoping the scene for some sign of our team’s most beloved player.
And he really is.
Our one behind the scenes video with him falling onto the ice and confessing his favorite things has racked up four times more views than the others of the entire team.
And those aren’t doing bad!
They’re actually higher than they were at this time last year – thanks to our playoff run this past season – further proving Snowman really is everyone’s favorite dreamsicle.
Except mine, of course.
I prefer any of the other flavors that haven’t pimped themselves like they’re afraid Baskin-Robbins is gonna go out of business by the end of the year.
Dude made more headlines over the summer than games he started in.
How can the world be so obsessed with one person?
And why him?
What makes him so fucking special?
Having no luck at the indoor bar either pushes me to expand my seek radius out of the kitchen region and into the livelier parts of the event where guests would rather be active as well as drink versus only drinking.
Beer pong being played in one of the transformed living room areas momentarily holds my attention. Afterall, it’s not every day you see a pair of retired Olympic divers cheering on a linen suit wearing MLL tendy that’s going toe to toe with a plaid jacket having Wimbledon winner.
Other open spaces are home to additional bars and food stations while the downstairs bedrooms have been converted into areas where guests can engage in darts, air hockey, and several poker tournaments.
Unfortunately for me, Snowman doesn’t seem to be anywhere on the first floor.
Because…why would he be?
Why would he be anywhere that could be remotely helpful to me?
Taking one set of the grand stairs to the second level has me grumbling again, although this time it’s about the shoes on my feet.
Forfuckssake, why do women have to wear these things?!
Why do they wanna wear these things?!
What’s wrong with a clean pair of kicks?!
Why can’t we make wearing those with evening gowns cocktail hour acceptable?!
Nearly tripping over the top step pulls a loud huff out of me that spurs the cute male who was heading towards me to retreat back to whoever or whatever had his attention pre my unhappy arrival.
Okay.
Maybe not flirting isn’t exactly a choice.
Maybe…just…maybe…men tend to avoid me.
But like, why’s that a me problem that they scare easily?