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)
Molly: Fine. I’ll save it.
Who is this?: Wow. This is progress. I’m honored.
Molly: [Screenshot of Hudson saved as Hockey Pest #2.]
Hockey Pest #2: Unbelievable.
Molly: It feels right.
Hockey Pest #2: I hate you.
Molly: No, you don’t.
Hockey Pest #2: . . . Shut up.
Molly: Blocked.
Hockey Pest #2: Liar.
Hockey Pest #2: Wait. If I’m Hockey Pest #2, who’s Hockey Pest #1?
46
Hudson
I know I should be celebrating, and if you ask my teammates, they’ll say it’s my second home, but really, bars aren’t my thing.
Sure, they’re great to drown out your sorrows. To hide from the real world and the problems you have.
But in truth, I find them too loud, too crowded, and full of way too many people I have no interest in getting to know.
I’m fucking tired.
Tired of pretending I don’t give a shit.
Tired of acting like an ass, so Molly won’t know that she affects me.
And after last night, I hope I don’t have to anymore.
To be honest, I’d much rather have stayed in the hotel and had a round two of the rooftop—this time on a bed instead of the gravelly roof I had to make do with.
One day, we’re going to have sex like normal people.
But for now, I’m just going to remember how she felt wrapped around my dick and try not to get too annoyed as people interrupt my night out with my team.
Fans don’t usually bother me. I’m okay signing autographs and taking pictures. But it’s when they think I owe them a part of myself that I have a problem.
I get that it’s partially my fault. I let them think I was accessible, but now I’m not.
Which is why I’m sitting at a high-top table near the back of the room, drinking a watered-down glass of tequila.
Mason is speaking.
I’m not listening.
As if he can hear my inner thoughts, he calls me out. “Dick, are you even listening?”
“No.”
At least I’m honest.
My attention drifts toward the bar, where a cluster of people stands laughing, clinking glasses, and having the time of their lives.
And then, I see her.
Molly.
She’s wearing a little black dress, the kind designed to ruin a man. It hugs every curve, stops just above her knees, and leaves her shoulders bare, her skin glowing under the low lights of the bar.
Her long brown hair cascades in loose waves down her back, a few strands falling forward, brushing against her collarbone.
She’s laughing at something someone said, the sound soft and light; her lips curved into a mysterious smile.
I feel like I’ve been sucker punched.
It’s ridiculous, really. I’ve seen Molly Sinclair a thousand times before, and I know better than to let her get to me.
But tonight? She’s different.
Or maybe it’s me who’s different.
Either way, the sight of her—confident, stunning, and oblivious to her effect on me—hits me like a freight train.
My chest tightens, my pulse quickening as my gaze travels back to the way the dress dips at the small of her back, subtle but lethal. She shifts, reaching for a drink, and the movement is enough to send my thoughts spiraling.
She’s beautiful, and worse, she makes me feel.
And I hate that.
I hate how easily she can knock me off balance, how seeing her smile in that stupid dress makes me want to walk over and pull her out of this crowd to have her to myself.
I’m screwed.
This is bullshit.
Yeah, I agreed to this. I said I was okay with not acknowledging each other tonight when she texted me that Dane was coming, but fuck, this is a lot harder than I thought.
She stands near the center of the group, making my pulse race in that dress.
Damn, she looks good.
Like a goddess sent down from heaven to torture me.
“You got it bad.”
I barely register Mason’s words.
When I do, I tear my gaze away from Molly. “What?”
“Dane might be stupid enough not to see the way you look at his sister, but I do.” He knocks back the rest of his drink. “You want her, dude.”
“Nah.” I shake my head, trying to play it off, replacing my tequila with a new beer bottle. “It’s not like that.”
But my voice sounds off. Too casual. Too forced.
Mason squints at me like he’s reading a damn book, and my chest tightens.
Shit.
My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the noise of the bar. He can’t know. No way. Molly would kill me.
If Mason has figured it out, it’s only a matter of time before it gets back to Dane—and I don’t even want to entertain that nightmare.
My grip tightens around the beer bottle in my hand as I try to keep my face neutral, but my thoughts are spiraling.
How the hell did he catch on?
I’ve been careful.
We’ve been careful.
No stolen glances in front of the team. No brushing hands, no sneaking out of rooms together. Nothing. Well, other than that time in the hall.