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It wasn’t his fault Max Lockhart had such a punchable face and insisted on putting it in front of Grady’s fist.
“Oh no. I know that look. It’s dick o’clock.”
Max probably looked like a chew toy. Worth it.
Maybe the reality wasn’t as dramatic as sports media liked to pretend, but archnemesis was only an exaggeration because neither of them had superpowers.
His date this afternoon was Tony, twenty-five, which Grady had decided was the lower limit for “you must be at least this old to ride.”
“You make millions of dollars a year. Why are you putting this on your scalp? Did the straight guys on your team get to you?”
“I am researching dishwashers for me, because if I ever have to hear this noise again, I’m going to kill someone, and they don’t have hockey in jail.”
“How have you kept this quiet for so long when your face does that when you talk about him?”
