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)
Confusion crinkles Tanner’s brows. “Long Island?”
“Tea,” the two of us retort in tandem to which he amusedly nods.
“And word is you enjoyed a lot of Canadian Ballets while you were up northskies.”
“I went to one,” Tanner defensively sneers.
“Reports are saying four.”
“I went to one and only one.”
“Why’d you go at all?” Becks casually interrogates.
“Because Payne was being a pain in the arse about it.”
“The one that gave him a lappy had a Snoop tattoo above her ass,” I mirthfully inform.
“Snoopy or Snoop Dog?”
“Snoop Dog,” my other half proclaims.
“Said ‘Doggystyle’ with the little cartoon dog that was on the album cover.”
Becks chortles in disbelief and grabs another wing from the container. “Were you there?”
I toss the finished bone onto my plate and give him the finger motion for “no” in sign language.
“That means no,” Tanner explains, “but I told her all about it when we got in that night. And not to believe a word about it that she was likely to read over the next couple of days.”
New curiosity cloaks his face. “That shit didn’t bother you, aye?”
“The rumors? Nah. Khurana pops off about a new one like every other day, I fucking swear.”
“The other thing.”
“Him gettin’ a lappy at the ballet on a broskie roadskie?” There’s no stopping my eyes from rolling. “Not even a little.”
Additional surprise lowers his jaw. “Really?”
“Really.” Grabbing a wet wipe is accompanied by a small shrug. “I knew where he was. I knew who he was with. I knew why he went. And at the end of the night, it was me getting a hand necklace in the shower while screaming his name, so what did it really matter?”
“Bloodyhell, Ducky, did you need to carve him a fucking picture?”
“It’s not like I told him about-”
“Do not even think about finishing that sentence.”
Smug snickers precede me shifting my stare back to a laughing Becks. “Point being, I’m not typically worried about whatever rumors are going around or showing up in DMs. I’m his Slayer, and he knows it.”
“And if it wouldn’t cost her her bloody job or me a fucking trade, I would show it.”
With that the person we’re here to visit releases a contemplative hum that’s followed by him investigating, “What happens if he gets traded?”
“That’s not going to happen,” Tanner swiftly declares.
“Let’s say it does,” Becks casually argues. “Afterall, it is trade season. We know rebuilds for playoffs are in motion.” He lets his attention cut back to me. “Would you go with him?” The question catches me off guard as much as my boyfriend. “Would you move to Florida? Michigan? New York? Highland?”
Uncertainty begins to spread through my chest.
“Would you be willing to give up your job? Your house? Your dog?”
“Bear goes where I go.”
“Would you be willing to give up your friends…” the discomfort slowly expands to my limbs, “your existence…” my fingers, “all you have…” my toes, “to follow him around wherever he’s dropped in the league?” Suddenly immobilized by uneasiness, I find myself incapable of even breathing. “Would you trade it all in just to be with him?”
Chapter 21
Arden
I aggressively drop the hot cookie pan on top of the island counter space beside the cooling rack and glare at the male across from me. “This is all your fault.”
Becks crinkles his nose in confusion. “How is you burning cookies my fault?”
“Because I can’t get my head in the game!”
“And…” he leans a little closer to examine the latest batch to barely escape a crispy catastrophe, “how is that my fault?”
“Because of your little verbal breakaway at rehab last week-”
“Week before.”
“Our whole dating playbook has just gone out the fucking window!”
“It’s a metaphorical playbook, aye?” He picks one of the loose raisins off the pan. “Not like…an actual one?”
“Ever since you decided to cross-check us-”
“Stick taps for all the hockey references.”
“-I have no idea what we’re doing or which way we’re going or what period we’re in because I’ve barely fucking seen him!”
“Moi non plus.”
“That’s because every spare minute he has he’s training to minimalize his risk of being traded!”
“Hennington’s not gonna trade him.”
“I know that! But you…” wagging the spatula near his face is attached to my voice lowering, “you got under his bucket and in his head to the point he’s too tired to even sneak into my room on the road for a blowie!”
I pop him in his t-shirt covered arm. “Ou!”
“And he hasn’t stayed over at my place once since your little stunt!”
Another swat lands on top of the first. “Ou!”
“Which means I haven’t had good lunch,” a third, “or dinner,” a fourth, “or been dessert in like two,” a fifth, “weeks!”
“Fuckkkk!” Becks grumbles, scooting the stool away from the island. “Were you in the MLB in your previous life?!”
“You’re about this close,” my fingers demonstrate a tiny gap, “to finding out what you’ll be in your next one.” Becks comically cringes in what can only be described as a genuine fear pushing me to whine, “Why did you instigate? Why did you get in his head? My head? Have me start looking at sports communication jobs in other cities?!”