Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
There are a few people noticeably absent from our team gathering. Legend wasn’t budging from Pepper’s side since she’s still recovering in the hospital. I’ll just make sure to drink an extra Balvenie for him.
Tacker is also absent. Although he has been indefinitely suspended, everyone would have loved for him to show up tonight. Hopefully the fact he didn’t—despite many of us extending the invitation for him to come—is not indicative of his lack of desire to stay with the team.
Also missing are the members of the coaching staff and the front office. That’s because they were purposely excluded. This is purely a player event. Which is good, because things will get wild tonight. Most of the single dudes in here are going to get laid, probably by more than one woman. Some of that will most definitely occur right on the premises.
“What are you drinking?” Bishop asks as he comes to stand beside me at the bar.
“Scotch,” I reply, then nod toward my glass. “Ask for forty-year-old Balvenie. You’ll love it.”
“Sounds great,” Bishop replies with an evil smile, knowing it costs some serious bank. “And just keep them coming for both of us.”
Gather swallows hard, then turns to leave. Bishop and I tap glasses once his drink arrives.
“Here’s to bankrupting the rookies tonight,” I say before taking another sip. Bishop does the same, hissing in appreciation.
“That’s good stuff,” he rasps.
“Told you.”
We move from the bar area and step off to the side, taking in the players—comrades, really—congregating. Laughing. Joking. Talking strategy. Talking shit.
Brotherhood stuff.
Bishop sidles in closer, tilts his head in, and asks in a low voice, “How are things going with Regan?”
I hunch slightly over my drink, not wanting to talk about her. I’m fucked up in my head in about a million different ways whenever I think about her. Part of me is telling myself it’s wrong to pursue something with her. I’m a brother figure. Some lines shouldn’t be crossed.
The other part is telling myself to be a selfish son of a bitch and take her. I hurt her with my rejection, but I know Regan is into me because she was hurt. This makes me realize something potentially wonderful could develop between us.
Then there’s another part that says, “Don’t fucking go there. Commitment is not what you want, and it’s a lot of damn work.”
“Are you going to answer me?” Bishop asks.
I twist my neck to regard him. “Nothing to say, brother. Things have settled, and we’re back in the friend zone. It’s all working out well.”
“Lying motherfucker,” he says with a chuckle, shaking his head.
There’s no sense in arguing with him. He can totally tell when I’m laying down bullshit. But if I refuse to take the bait and keep my mouth decidedly shut, then we won’t have a conversation about this, which is what I prefer.
Bishop’s large hand comes down on my shoulder. He gives me an affectionate squeeze, which actually hurts a bit since he’s trying to make a point.
I give him my attention because I would never disrespect his advice.
“Take it from someone who has recently realized the benefit of falling in love with a wonderful woman. Don’t pass up something that could be amazing just because you have a few doubts. Something great is worth the risk, my man. Without risk, there is no reward.”
“Yeah? What if I take the risk and then decide it’s not for me? What happens then? I’ll tell you what… Regan ends up incredibly hurt. And I sure as shit don’t want to do that to her.”
That expression on her face when I told her what we’d done was a mistake had been enough to last me a lifetime.
“Maybe that’s for Regan to decide,” he suggests slyly. “It’s not all about you. She should have a say so.”
I know the bastard’s right, which causes me to growl in frustration before I down my drink. Turning toward the bar, I immediately catch the bartender’s eye. I hold my glass up, indicating I want another, and he gives me a thumb’s up in return.
If Bishop is going to insist on warm and fuzzy talks tonight, I’m going to need more liquor.
“Well, will you look at that?” Bishop says, his eyes on the bar entrance.
Angling my body, I glance that way, stunned to see Dominik Carlson walking in, which is shocking for many reasons. The first and most obvious is he’s the team’s owner. As far as I know, a team owner has not only never been invited but has also never dared to crash such an event in the history of professional hockey and rookie parties. Another reason this is eyebrow raising is because he lives in Los Angeles. He doesn’t spend a lot of time in Phoenix, despite the fact he owns our team. He has so many other diverse business holdings originated in California he isn’t frequently seen in this area.