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)
Her eyes narrow, and she takes a deliberate step back like she wants to get as far away from this conversation as humanly possible. “I just defended you because I didn’t want to sit through another second of that train wreck. Don’t get it twisted.”
“Defended me like a damn hero.” My grin widens. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were starting to like having me around.”
“Wrong.” She rolls her eyes.
“Oh, come on.” I step away from the wall, prowling closer to her. “You were incredible in there, and you know it. If I didn’t already think you were hot, that whole taking-no-bullshit act might’ve done it for me.”
She blinks at me, her face going blank for half a second before she recovers with a disgusted look that’s almost theatrical. “Ew,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “You’re gross.”
“Am I?” I tease, tilting my head.
“Yes,” she says firmly. “And don’t you forget it.”
I take another step closer, grinning down at her. “You’re standing awfully close for someone who finds me so gross.”
“You’re the one moving. Not me.” Her eyes flash, and she steps back to prove her point, holding up a hand to stop me. “Just because I defended you in there doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what an insufferable, cocky, perpetually late pain in my ass you are.”
“Don’t forget charming,” I add, smirking.
“Gross,” she repeats, spinning on her heel and heading toward the parking lot.
I follow, unable to wipe the grin off my face. “You know, most people would say thank you after a compliment.”
“Most people don’t get their compliments from walking red flags,” she shoots back over her shoulder.
I laugh, jogging to catch up with her. “Red’s a good color on me, don’t you think?”
She stops abruptly, turning to glare at me. “If you say one more word, I’m stealing your keys and leaving you here to figure out your own ride back to the rink.”
I hold my hands up in surrender, still grinning. “Noted.”
The drive back is quieter than I expected, but every time I glance at her, I catch that little crease in her brow and how her lips press together like she’s holding back something biting.
She can pretend all she wants, but I know I’ve gotten under her skin.
And if I’m being honest? She’s gotten under mine, too.
19
Molly
Six Months Later: The Playoffs
There is no question that I love my brother, but being his assistant isn’t actually the dream job I would make it out to be.
Honestly, it’s not bad, and I happily do it—he did give up his life for me—but recently, I have felt like I’m not needed anymore.
It’s not like I don’t understand. Of course, I do. But that doesn’t make it any easier.
Dane’s life has stabilized since meeting Josie and mine . . . hasn’t. Watching him thrive should feel like a victory. Instead, it feels like someone pulled the rug out from under me.
It’s a weird feeling to have, and I don’t like it.
For so many years, I’ve been by his side, silently paying off the imagined debt I had to him. He never demanded this, nor did he even know that’s why I did it, but now am I even needed?
Josie does most of the things I used to do, and a good manager could handle the rest.
Where does that leave me? My job, taking care of Dane, has been my identity for years. Now the job doesn’t feel like my own.
I feel disposable.
It feels like my life is spiraling out of control, and I’m not sure where my place in the world is.
If I’m not Dane’s assistant, who am I?
It’s a question I’ve been too scared to ask myself for years. Still too scared to ask.
I’m so used to managing the chaos of Dane’s life that now that there is no “chaos,” I’m not sure what to do.
Laptop in hand, I take a seat on the bench that faces the practice rink. Later tonight, we’ll be flying out for the first game of round one of the playoffs.
I’m currently working on answering Dane’s emails.
What can I say? It’s a glamorous life.
It’s quiet at this time of day. The players haven’t arrived yet, and while I usually work in the office, I love the crisp smell of the ice. Something about it is so comforting.
The sharp, cold air.
The faint scent of something sweet and earthy.
I’ve spent most of my life close to a rink, so much so it now smells like home.
Peering down onto my screen, I start to go through each email one by one. Public appearance requests, emails from his bank, and even fan mail.
After about twenty emails and no clue how much time has passed, I hear the telltale signs of skates cutting across fresh ice.
I tilt my head and look to see who’s here this early and already on the ice.