Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“Are you out of your mind? Of course I do!” he replies, looking genuinely offended by the suggestion that he wouldn’t.
I can’t help but laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious,” he says, leaning forward like he’s about to let me in on some life-altering secret. “Do you have any idea how many rituals go into being a hockey player? It’s practically a religion.”
“Let me guess,” I say, crossing my arms. “You have a pair of lucky socks that you’ve worn twenty games in a row.”
“Not socks,” he says, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But I do have a routine. And now I have a lucky charm.” He pauses. “You.”
“I need you at every game.”
“Every game?” I repeat, staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “Do you realize how insane that sounds?”
“Not insane,” he corrects, holding up a finger. “Committed to the cause.”
“What cause? Driving me crazy?”
“If that’s what it takes,” he says, smirking.
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off.
“Think about it,” he says, his tone turning thoughtful. “You come to my games, I win more often, the media gets to keep their feel-good story about my ‘brilliant, beautiful good luck charm.’ Everyone wins.”
Everyone wins.
“What’s in it for me?” I blurt out. “Besides the fact that my team will become champions.” Which is the ultimate goal, yeah?
“Well. You get me.” He spreads his arms wide like he’s presenting himself as a prize on a game show. “Whatever you want.”
Whatever I want…
My eyes trail down his torso.
Broad chest.
His is a body roughened by years of hockey, with hands you’d expect to see gripping a stick or wrapping around a big, thick—
“Uh-huh,” I say, forcing my focus back to his face. His stupid, cheeky grin is firmly in place. “I have a job, you know. A full-time one.”
I’m a Big Kid! My tone says.
“And?” He shrugs like this is the most minor inconvenience in the world. “My games are mostly at night. Doesn’t conflict with your office hours, Professor Adams.”
“How generous of you,” I lament dryly.
“I know.”
“You seriously think I’m going to drop everything and become your personal good luck charm? That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” he counters, his grin softening into something closer to sincerity. “It’s practical.”
“Practical?” I repeat, my voice rising slightly. “For who? You?”
“Sure.” The giant oaf leans back in his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “But also for you. Think about it—this is your chance to be part of something bigger than yourself.”
“I am part of something bigger than myself,” I say, gesturing around my office. At my diplomas—Bachelors, Masters, and Doctorate degrees, thankyouverymuch. “It’s called academia.”
He snorts. “Does academia have championship trophies and screaming fans?”
“No,” I admit reluctantly. “But it includes tenure and health insurance.”
Ha!
“Touché,” he allows. “But it also doesn’t have me. And for the record, I don’t half ass anything.”
He is giving me a pointed look so intense, I squirm uncomfortably.
“Right,” I reply dryly. “Because it’s not like I have papers to grade or meetings to attend or, you know, a life outside of work.”
“You’ll make time,” he says confidently, like it’s a foregone conclusion.
“Wow.” I blink at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you.” He flashes me a smile so bright it should be illegal and for a brief moment, I catch myself wondering if he’s had any teeth knocked out and if so, which ones.
“That wasn’t a compliment,” I snap, unconvincing even to my own ears. He is turning me into a liar!
“Sure it was,” he says easily. “You don’t want to admit it.”
I roll my eyes, but Gio only laughs, the sound warm and entirely too charming. Intoxicating, even.
“Okay,” I say, holding up a hand. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I agree to this madness. What exactly would this…arrangement entail?”
His grin widens, like he’s been waiting for me to ask. “You’d come to my games, obviously. Cheer for me. Maybe throw a few good-natured insults at the opposing team.”
“Duh.” I toss my hair. “What else?”
“Well.” He sits forward, getting excited. “We’d probably have to hang out a bit outside of games, you know, to keep up appearances. Make it believable for the media.”
“Believable?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “You mean you’d want me to fake-date you?”
“Who said anything about fake?” he says, his grin turning mischievous.
My stomach flips, and I hate how easily he gets under my skin.
“Dude,” I start, my tone holding warning.
“Relax, relax.” He stands. I track him with my eyes as he rounds the desk, his presence so commanding that it feels like the entire room shrinks. “I’m not asking you to marry me. Just to think about it.”
I’m not asking you to marry me…
Marry me.
He stops right next to my chair, towering over me, and every logical part of my brain is screaming at me to stand up, too. Or wheel my chair away. The massive lunk crouches so we’re eye level, his face impossibly close to mine.