Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
It doesn’t help that bloodsucking reporters like Lennon Hawkins write slanderous articles in reputable sports magazines that the only reason my stats were so good last year was because of Tommy.
What the hell kind of name is Lennon, anyway? It’s probably an alias to hide behind so he can be candidly asshole-y about the fact he could never make it in sports.
I’d like to see you chase around a puck while wearing skates, asshole.
It wouldn’t surprise me if I found out Lennon Hawkins is a washed-up has-been in the sporting world but probably in a sport like baseball or football. I’ve pretty much stalked the man online within an inch of breaching privacy laws, and up until recently, he only reported on football and baseball.
The reason for his switch hasn’t been printed or publicized, but my guess is he got tired of terrorizing ballers and decided to switch to puck chasers. And for some reason, he’s been on my ass from day one.
Tommy says I’m reading into it and to let it go—block the site and move on—but there’s something about this reporter guy I don’t like, and I can’t put my finger on it.
In all my stalking, I couldn’t find a photo. He’s probably a fat balding dude who looks as bitter as his articles, and that’s why the magazine won’t post his picture.
“You’re doing that thing with your face again,” Tommy says.
“What thing?” I snap.
“Looking angry and sulking at the same time. Didn’t know it was possible to look like a badass and a bitch, but here you are.”
I cock my head. “Why am I friends with you again?”
“Are you thinking about those stupid articles for the billionth time?”
“No,” I lie and know he doesn’t believe me.
“That guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and don’t make me go on and on about there being no I in team. Without you, I wouldn’t have had the highest scoring stats last season. You set them up, I seal the deal. That’s how it is … err, was.”
“Exactly. It still wasn’t good enough for the GM.”
And I’m still convinced one of Lennon’s articles had something to do with my trade. I’ve read over it so many times I could recite it if I had to, but there’s one line I can’t get out of my head:
Strömberg would thrive if he was in the encouraging environment he requires to grow into a player who doesn’t need to hide behind a sniper.
It’s as if that Lennon guy knows all my secrets and is teasing me with them. Tommy says I’m being paranoid, but I dunno … something about that article doesn’t sit right with me. Not only does it call me out for being a mediocre player, saying I’m being overshadowed by Tommy and even implies I’m using Tommy’s talents to my advantage, but it also points out I have a reason to hide from the limelight. A reason no one in the NHL knows apart from Tommy. And the only reason he knows at all is because he overheard me on the phone to Ash when we roomed together once. I was still in the AHL at the time but had been called up for a few games. All he had to say about it was “My brother-in-law has a boyfriend, so I’m cool with it.” He promised to never tell a soul, and he never has.
“You know what you need?” Tommy says.
“Here we go.”
“You should take some guy home tonight and do things to him that I don’t want to hear about tomorrow.”
“Brilliant idea. While I’m at it, I’ll call a press conference and out myself to the entire world.”
“There you go being all dramatic again. Aren’t gay guys all about the anonymous hookup?”
“Stereotyping, for the win,” I say.
Again, he ignores my snark. He truly is like one of my brothers. “Where better to find the perfect candidate than a gay and lesbian charity event?”
Well, there’s Grindr for one … “I’m not ready.”
“It’s been a year since Ash—”
I grit my teeth. “Really? It’s been a year? Had no idea.” It’s been three hundred forty-two days to be exact, but if I say that aloud, I’ll never hear the end of it. And in those three hundred and forty-two days, I’ve only wanted one other man, and he disappeared without a trace and without giving me his phone number. Or real name for that matter.
“You need to move on,” Tommy says. “Even if it’s only a quick blowjob in a bathroom stall.”
I’d give him a lecture about not every gay man being into casual sex, but I think that might go against the gay rule book. Thou shalt not let anyone know we can be monogamous, loving, and all we want is to find that one person who makes our whole world complete. Someone who doesn’t throw ultimatums and guilt trips.