Rovhal30:A Dell
She snickered. Good one.
NeverL8:Actual LOLZ
Rovhal30:LOLZ?
NeverL8:Uh... like laugh out loud?
Rovhal30:Why the Z?
NeverL8:It’s nonstandard spelling of the suffix “s”... i.e. just for fun.
Rovhal30:Remind me what i.e means again?
NeverL8:Latin for “id est”’ which translates roughly to “in other words.” I like it. Use it all the time.
She attached the nerdy-face emoticon for good measure and hit Send.
Pause. No response.
She chewed the inside of her cheek and waited. Still nothing.
Gah.Had she driven him away with an obscure-grammar geek out? She rocked her head back against the seat and groaned—she sucked at this. Her gaze connected with Burlesque Blondie. Fine, not only was shestuck in a rut, she won all the awards for awkward internet flirting.
It could be time to accept her spinster status, drive to the shelter and finally choose a kitten for that cat tower that she’d bought last summer at a garage sale.
Traffic crawled forward, Rovhal30’s pitchfork avatar ticked away on the upcoming off-ramp, her own exit. She gave a slow exhale and clicked out of the app.
A journalist’s first obligation was to tell the truth. Hers was that she was undersexed and overworked. She wasn’t living her best life. She didn’t evenhavea life, too busy to even be a crazy cat lady. Her rut had masqueraded as a comfortable routine for too long. It was high time to climb out and put herself into the world. Find her inner sex kitten and make it purr.
Faster than the speed of second guesses, she snapped a photo of the phone number for The Twirling Tassels, shifted out of first gear and hit the gas.
Chapter Two
They were going to lose.
Tor Gunnar grabbed the Tic Tac container from his pocket, thumbed open the flip lid and popped a mint into his mouth. The five-two scoreboard told a dismal tale, one that had become increasingly familiar since the start of the season. The San Francisco Renegades, the long-standing archrivals to the Denver Hellions, were wiping the ice with them.
No heroic comeback was in the cards for tonight. Not with the way his team was disintegrating out there. Already fans were leaving their seats to get a jump start on traffic.
Third period. Five minutes left. The mint turned to dust between his molars.
The Renegades might have plunged the proverbial knife into the heart of the Hellions morale, but now they twisted the blade, antagonizing his guys, looking for ways to draw blood—both metaphorical and actual—as they settled old scores. The goalie, Donnelly, hulked in front of his net as the offense bore down. His goalie was territorial, an enraged bear protecting a cub from rogue wolves. Renegade winger Ryker Fury didn’t even have the puck in possession yet had invaded the space, a clear taunt.
“Come on,” Tor muttered. It was plain enough to see what was going down. Fury was out there looking to provoke a reaction. Donnelly’s hotheaded temper was legendary. As much as Gunnar had tried to find new ways to cool his ass, if someone messed with him, the kid messed back. Every damn time.
“Don’t do it. Don’t take the bait.” Tor crossed his arms. Donnelly had what it took to be a star. Someday he might be a legend—if he could learn to control his fucking temper. Even with today’s score, the kid had made unbelievable saves.
Fury shouted something.
Donnelly dropped his gloves in response.
Tor hid his inner wince behind a stoic mask.
Someday Donnelly might be a superstar goalie, but today sure as shit wasn’t that day.
Ryker was big—strong and mean—but Donnelly had the devil in him. His fists flew fast and hard. It wasn’t long until Ryker was on the ice and Donnelly towered on top.
