Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
“Gross?” I repeat, my voice rising.
“Yes,” she says, voice dripping with ice. “You strut around like you’re God’s gift to hockey and women, and it’s disgusting.”
Her words hit me like a slap. For a second, I’m too stunned to respond. Then anger flares, hot and unrelenting.
“Fine,” I snap. “If you think I’m such a player, maybe I should act like it.”
She blinks, her expression flickering with something I can’t quite place. But before she can respond, I turn on my heel and make my way back to the team.
“Ladies,” I say, sliding up beside Mason and gesturing toward a group of blonde fans practically drooling over us. “Why don’t you join us for a drink?”
The blondes giggle and eagerly follow, and within minutes, we’re all seated at a table with rounds of tequila shots being poured.
“You’re in a mood,” Mason says, raising an eyebrow at me as he downs his shot.
“Just celebrating,” I reply, forcing a grin.
But my eyes keep darting back to the bar, where Molly still stands. Her gaze flicks to our table for a moment before she turns away, her jaw tight.
Good. Let her be annoyed. Let her see what it feels like to be brushed off, dismissed, and ignored.
The night spirals quickly from there. The blondes cling to us, laughing too loudly at every joke Mason makes, and I’m leaning into it hard, playing the part of the charming playboy Molly accused me of being even though I couldn’t be more disinterested in any of them.
But the more I play it up, the worse I feel. The tequila burns, but it doesn’t dull the nagging ache in my chest.
And then it happens.
Molly storms across the room, her expression stormy as hell. She grabs my arm, pushing me back with more strength than I thought she had.
“Move,” she snaps, her voice low but furious, though she went out of her way to get in my way.
“Molly—”
“Don’t.” Her tone vibrates with anger. “Just stay out of my way.”
And with that, she storms out of the bar, leaving me standing there like an idiot.
The table is silent for a moment before Mason lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Wilde. What the hell did you do this time?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Because for all the anger simmering in my chest, all I can think about is the way she looked at me before she left. Like I wasn’t worth her time.
And in an instant, the post-win high comes crashing down.
SEASON FOUR
16
Hudson
The elevator doors slide open, and I step into the lobby of the local TV studio I’ve been summoned to.
I rake a hand through my still damp hair. Great first impression, Hudson.
You are totally nailing it. Nothing screams professionalism like looking like you just took a dive in a pool.
It would have been smarter to have showered earlier, but apparently, I’m destined to never be on time.
Case in point: this morning.
I was halfway through my breakfast, mid-bite of my bagel, to be exact, when it hit me. My interview wasn’t at ten a.m., it was at nine.
Who schedules an interview at nine in the morning? Psychopaths, that’s who.
First of all, whoever scheduled the interview at such an ungodly hour should be arrested.
Second, again . . . Actually, there is no second. Who schedules an interview this early? The sheer cruelty of this crime speaks for itself.
I barely had time to drink coffee.
So, yeah, my hair is wet, but at least I’m here. Maybe thirty minutes late, but better late than never. Time is subjective, anyway, right? Einstein said so.
It’s just a small slipup. No big deal.
Except for the fact that Molly Sinclair is going to be here. Fabulous.
Now, I’ll never live it down. It makes sense, though, since her being here is probably why I’m late.
Her being my hex and all.
When she’s around, bad things happen. Like my alarm not going off or my sense of time deciding to take a vacation. All her fault.
I round the corner and head toward the waiting area.
Sure enough, there she is.
She stands at the far wall, back leaning against it. Phone clenched in her hand.
It’s really a shame she hates me because that night in the run-down gas station will forever go down as the best sex I’ve ever had. Not that I’d ever tell her that. She’d probably laugh, tell me to keep dreaming, and then bring it up in every argument for the rest of eternity.
She looks good today too. Oh, who am I kidding? She looks good every day. It would be nice if she could tone it down a little bit for my sanity. As is, I’d be willing to put all the fucked-up shit aside just to feel her come on my dick again.
For a brief second, I allow myself to take her in. Her long brown hair sweeps past her shoulders in bouncy waves, and her soft features are highlighted by a touch of makeup.