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)
An unfortunate headline trending?
That already happens to me what feels like every other week.
“Can the league really fine her for spearing?” Hoss ponders out loud, attention dropping back to me.
“I don’t think so, but,” a small cringe is flashed, “I am fairly certain she can be fined for physically assaulting the press even if Ramirez has it coming.”
“She doesn’t not not have it coming.”
“Agreed.”
“She’s basically Commodus.”
Intrigue has me quirking a curious eyebrow. “From Gladiator?”
“Do you know another?”
“The…actual Commodus.”
“He was real?”
“He was. The depiction?” My head bounces slightly side to side. “Some might say watered down in comparison to his factual performance as an emperor.”
It’s her turn to look momentarily impressed. “And what would you say?”
“That I’ll tell you all of my thoughts over a couple of brewskies when we’re finished here.”
“No.” There’s no reluctance for Hoss to straighten her spine and flip the hatred switch back into the on position. “I don’t date hockey players.” My mouth isn’t even given a second to consider moving. “And we are finished here.”
“You mean for now.” The glare I’m twitched simply encourages me to arrogantly grin wider. “Come Monday morning pracky, you’re all mine for the next six months.”
“Nah, I can probably find another job before then,” she denies while slowing back up, snarky smirk shifting into something much more vicious. “One where I don’t hate the person that I have to work with more than my medical condition.”
Chapter 2
Arden
One twin is always evil.
It’s her.
It’s definitely her.
“No one cares why you’re adding frown lines to your face.”
See.
Evil.
“Mom and Dad aren’t going to just buy you a hockey team to make you smile,” sneers Audrey, my identical twin, from the opposite side of our parents’ wooden, backyard, brunch table. “Don’t be daft.”
“Don’t be fake British,” I childishly snip back while tossing the last of my avocado toast to Bear, my black and tan Tibetan mastiff, who’s in the chair beside me.
“Don’t feed the wolf at the table.”
“Don’t bring home the one from Wallstreet.”
“I don’t get it,” Audrey huffs in exasperation.
“And no one’s surprised,” is attached to a sardonic smirk.
“Arden,” our dad, Amedeo Hoss, struggles to scold rather than snicker, “be better.”
“I don’t know how that’s humanly possible…” levity lingers in my tone, “because that comeback was top cheddar.”
“It was-”
“Amedeo,” hisses our mom, Charlotte, from behind her mimosa.
“But,” he lifts a pointed finger at her prior to rotating it over to me, “I said be better, not do better, mi pequeña rebelde.”
I’ve always been his little rebel.
And she’s always been his little princess.
Pretty.
Poised.
Perfect.
Picture ready at the literal lift of a phone.
Thankfully, I never wanted that trophy style title.
Not when we were kids.
Not when we were teens.
And damn sure not now that we’re adults.
Audrey lives to be everyone’s perfect snapshot princess while I live to burn down her kingdom one hashtag defying comment at a time.
Huh.
I can totally see how I might get branded the evil one, but that’s just an unfair assessment.
It’s the whole don’t judge the dude who arrives in front of the stone thing.
You can’t always see a person’s worthiness just like you can’t always see a person’s worthlessness.
However, she doesn’t exactly keep hers hidden.
“Same goes for you, mi princesa.” Dad leans back in his cushioned seat and wraps his tattooed golden honey arm around the back of our mom’s chair. “More kindness, less indifference.”
There’s no stopping my head from falling sassily to one side. “Do you know what that word means, or does it have too many syllables for you?”
“Arden,” our mom hisses again, although this time I swear it’s to stop herself from smirking.
“Why won’t you guys buy me a hockey team?” I playfully inquire while picking up a blueberry from my bowl. “I ask for so little in this family.” Bear releases a light huff that causes me to flick my finger in his direction. “See.” Tossing him the small piece of fruit is followed by me grabbing another one for myself. “Even Bear agrees.”
“Your fat dog just wanted food,” gags the DNA curse across from us.
His immediate response of craning his neck forward and snarling has me victoriously smirking. “He’s not fat. He’s fluffy.”
“Yeah, and that plumpkin pie your captain is banging-”
“Married.”
“-is just retaining water.”
“Pregnant.”
“Why are you so bitchy today?” Mom swiftly investigates between sips of her mimosa. “Did they cancel your stylist appointment again?”
“Pushed back,” Audrey dramatically grouses. “Like I don’t have a busy schedule.”
“You don’t,” effortlessly leaves me as I offer my dog another bite.
“For your information-”
“I could live without that information.”
“I. Do.”
“Doubtful.”
She lets the corners of her lips curl upward in a way that threatens to have me choking on the cherry I’m now nibbling on. “I start my new job with The Dragons tomorrow.”
Violent coughing is instantly initiated, which pulls a victorious smirk onto her face.
See.
Evil.
Bear quickly leans over, plants a hard paw in the middle of my tied up, white t-shirt covered back, and prepares to jump to provide the assist, prompting me to croak out in a mangled voice, “I’m okay.”