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)
“I do not mind not always having to turn my charm on.”
“That implies you can turn it off.”
“Are you saying you believe me to be naturally charismatic?”
“I’m saying I cannot answer questions like that without legal counsel present.”
Much louder and livelier laughs flood the room making it practically impossible to divert my gaze elsewhere.
Not that I really want to.
It’s such a toe-curling sight.
Before he can comment on my open mouth ogling – and I totally am – I resume control of the conversation and hit the camera button. “How about you give those that stopped doom scrolling to watch this the reason why you like to play pool at the P.A.L. event.”
“I will give them that and footage of me finishing this match, if you give me your word that we can play the next round together.”
“Blackmail.”
“Bribery.”
“Extortion.”
“Incentive,” Frosky haughtily chortles. “I have had the great pleasure of meeting you, Arden Hoss. When it involves me,” his tongue steals a deliciously slow lick of his lips, “you will only participate if you’re on the PK.”
Who’s still tracking my hate stats?
Yeah.
You.
Put this shit on there too.
Fuck him for knowing my fucking plays when it comes to my greatest pain in the league.
“I um…” lowering the phone casually occurs, “didn’t plan to stay once I got what I came for.”
“Perhaps it is I who needs to be covering their beverage.”
There’s no stopping my mouth from cracking wide in surprise.
“And why not?” he proceeds to ask around his own snickers. “Why wouldn’t you want to stay?”
“I don’t belong here,” escapes before I can stop it.
“A charity event where athletes from all leagues are raising money for children simply by drinking alcohol, talking stats, and competing at shite most haven’t indulged in since Uni?” The sarcastic expression that crosses his face is attached to a sardonic head tilt. “Pretty sure you fit in better than most of the people contractually obligated to be here.”
Not smiling is impossible.
Damn it.
“You should stay and let me earn the bragging rights that come with kicking your arse at something.”
Once more, my mouth moves without my consent. “Why do you do that?”
“Poke the bear?” He innocently shrugs. “It’s your love language.”
“Bear is my dog, and I don’t recommend you ever poke him.”
“So…” the accidental information drop causes him to beam obnoxiously bright, “you have a dog.”
“I meant,” reclaiming the conversation is accompanied by a harsh glare, “go between words and phrases like ass and arse and shit and shite and contractions and separations. Why is there no fucking consistency to your speech pattern?”
“Why are you studying my speech so critically?”
“Why don’t you ever stop talking?”
Another round of open mouth chuckles makes itself known prior to him answering, “I have one parent that is from Doctenn, which is where I spent many of my childhood summers, and one parent that is from here in the states, which is where I was technically born as well as brought up. Being actively raised by both and raised in both places naturally created this eloquent frat douche dialect you take so much pride in chirping me for.”
Great.
Now, I belong in the penalty box for unsportsmanlike conduct.
“One round.” Frosky flashes his irresistible smile yet again. “One round, and I’ll give you a detailed answer on camera as to why I like to play pool.”
“Fine,” begrudgingly leaves me. “But if it you give me some half-cocked, obviously thought out between lacing up your skates answer, I will shove that stick you’re holding so far up your own ass, you’ll look like a bobble head that belongs on the dash of my jeep rather than an actual human being that’s won the Art Ross Trophy.”
His object free hand shoots me a curious point. “You drive a jeep?”
An eye roll is all he’s given before I’m lifting the device back up for recording.
He politely waits until he receives a kick of the chin that indicates I’ve begun filming to cockily question, “Miss me?”
Noiselessly gagging behind the camera gets him chuckling again.
“Hoss caught me here at the P.A.L. event playing a bit of pool.” Resuming the bent over to shoot position occurs without directing. “One thing that – I believe – sets me apart from others is how I work at keeping my mitts so silky.”
The waggling of his eyebrows prompts me to shake my head.
“See most athletes – across the board – primarily focus only on their own sport; however, I,” he glides the cue between his spread fingers, “dabble in various forms to ensure my mitts receive a diverse range of movements and motions.” Frosky knocks his stick into the white ball, sending it towards the lonely solid green one. “Each sport offers and requires something different providing me with the opportunity to tone and strengthen my muscles as well as muscle memories in ways that quite a number of people would never consider.” Post the round object successfully falling into its appointed hole, he adds, “Plus, I like the challenge of learning other sports. It reminds me of when I was just starting out in hockey. It did not come easily or naturally, and that little tidbit simply made me love it more.” His crystal stare cuts upward to find my brown. “Because I had to work for it. I had to earn the right to be on that ice.” He burrows it deeper into mine. “And what you’re willing to work for is always much more satisfying than what is simply handed to you, aye?”