Page 94 of Unrivaled

Of course.At least u didn’t send dick cheney

I’m not actually TRYING to piss you off.Then, a moment later,Saw the game tonight. What’s Wells smoking?

They’d won, but Wells had been up to his usual bullshit, making Max his designated pain in the ass. Max’s fledgling good mood waned.Dont joke abt drugs :(

Shit, sorry. I hope Saunders is back soon.

Max did too, but he didn’t want to talk about hockey.tell me something good.He flopped on the bed with his phone.

Grady’s next message said,I made another bet.

How mysterious.Oh?????

I lost.

Max smiled at his phone screen.Whats the forfeit?

I’ll tell you when it’s done.

They texted back and forth a few more times, but Max’s eyelids were heavy. With Grady to distract him from his frustration with Wells, he fell asleep.

TWO WEEKSafter the Condors returned from their road trip, Grady woke up with regrets.

Not about the tattoo. Farouk won the bet fair and square, and somehow it did help Grady bond with the team. Their schedule had kept him from holding up his end of the agreement until last night, but that gave him plenty of time to come up with his idea. Mitch cried tears of laughter when Grady showed him the design he’d chosen, and he and Farouk stayed for the whole appointment, cracking jokes and telling stories about the team.

But if Grady had to do it again, he’d pick another location. The bowl of his hip had been a poor choice. It was going to be a bitch to play with.

He should probably get some analgesic cream or something, because he might have the whole day off from hockey… but not from moving.

Today Grady got possession of his house.

Groaning, he got up and made himself coffee. Not touching the ink on his hip took a surprising amount of focus. He definitely needed caffeine to manage it.

He had forty minutes before he had to meet the movers at his new house when someone knocked on the hotel-room door.

Blearily, Grady opened it and was surprised to find Farouk and Mitch, as well as Dawg and a handful of other guys, standing on his doorstep. Or whatever you had when you still lived in a hotel room.

“Rise and shine,” Mitch said. “It’s moving day.”

Grady blinked at him. “I know. What are you doing here?”

“Helping,” Dawg said like it was obvious. “Are you going to get dressed?”

Was Grady being bossed around by a nineteen-year-old off the ice? “I hired professional movers,” he protested.

“They’re not gonna unpack your kitchenware, dude.” That was Farouk. “Hurry up. If we get going early, we can be done in time for beach volleyball.”

“Hey,” said Dawg before Grady could find a shirt, “is that a new tattoo?”

Grady hadn’t explained it to Mitch and Farouk, and he sure as fuck wasn’t going to explain it to Dawg, a kid Grady’d taken aside and told to stop washing his face with Irish Spring. “Eyes up here, Captain.”

Dawg flushed so brightly Grady felt bad for calling him out.

“Help yourself to some coffee while I get dressed.” Hopefully that would distract everyone from teasing Dawg.

By two o’clock, Grady had to admit that moving went smoothly when you had professional hockey players as well as professional movers. Granted, he’d sold a lot of furniture with the Philadelphia house and had only kept his master bedroom set, personal touches like art and framed jerseys, and his kitchenware, wardrobe, and linens. He had his old TV and media console and one ugly armchair the new homeowners didn’t want, and the nice patio set that came with the new house because, he suspected, it was too heavy for anyone to want to move it.

His decorator had ordered all his other furniture to be delivered over the next few weeks. But for today, they were making do with the pool, the patio furniture, and the towels Grady pulled out of his box of bath linens. He made a beer run and had an embarrassing number of pizzas delivered, and they ate outside in the winter sunshine. The thermometer read seventy-five degrees.

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