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)
Rookie beyotch.
I slide smoothly to cut him off, my pads swallowing the puck with a satisfying thud.
“Nice try.”
Not.
I flick the puck out of my crease and back toward the blue line.
I hear him groan.
“Come on, bro. Can’t you let one through? For morale?”
“Not my job,” I reply, grinning behind my mask.
The next shooter is Liam, one of the wingers who never stops chirping, even during drills. He skates in fast, snapping the puck toward the top corner. I react on instinct, my glove shooting up to snatch it out of the air.
“Denied!” I shout, tossing the puck lazily to the ice.
I am in the fucking zone.
Liam flips me the bird—I can’t see it because of his mitt, but I translate the gesture as: Fuck you, dude.
It’s all banter. Lighthearted, easy. Beneath the facade, I feel my focus sharpening with every save. Every blocked shot is another reminder of why I’m here, why I love this game, why I’m good at it.
But then, like an annoying little whisper, her face creeps into my mind. Austin. Sitting at her desk, rolling her eyes at me.
She’s so damn sexy.
A professor—who would have imagined that!
The mental image of her standing in front of a classroom, commanding the room with her wit and intelligence, does something to my dick that I can’t explain.
She’s fucking thrilling.
Never met a woman like her.
I’m standing in the box though my mind is back in her little office, imagining her in the glasses that were resting on her desk. Imagining her naked on her desk…wearing heels. I imagine what her tits might look like. If they’d spill out of my hands, or if they’re small—like her.
Her sassy mouth gets me so hot and bothered.
The thoughts are so vivid my cock twitches inside my gear.
Coach’s whistle pierces the air, dragging me back to the present. Another drill. Another shot to block. I drop into position, but my mind is half a step behind, lingering on Austin’s sharp tongue and her softer side—both of which I’ve gotten glimpses of.
Another sharp whistle.
Get it together, Gio. This is practice, not fantasy hour.
“Why are you in such a damn good mood?” One of my teammates skates past and heckles me.
I roll my eyes, flipping my mask up and resting it on my head.
“Maybe I’m just happy to be here, fucker—ever thought of that?”
“Since when?” Collins skates around the neck, continuing to taunt me. “Is it that chick on the news?”
DING DING DING.
Bingo.
My mask flips back down and I refocus on the ice, trying to ignore the heat crawling up the back of my neck.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit,” he shouts back, skating closer. “That chick is all over social media, and so are you. Your ‘brilliant and beautiful’ good luck charm? Makes me want to vomit—what’s the deal with you two?”
Of course it would make him want to vomit.
From what I know, Collins is relationship adverse and would rather sleep around than settle down. Not that I have room to talk; that’s been my track record, too, until the past year of reevaluating my priorities.
“Our deal is none ya business,” I snap, crouching back into position as Coach lines up the next drill. “Maybe if you spent more time shooting pucks and less time gossiping like a middle schooler, you’d actually score on me for once.”
“Why are you being a bitch about it? I’m just asking.”
He feigns left. He feigns right. But I’m already reading him, tracking the puck as he swings left again and goes for a wrist shot.
Not today.
I snap my glove hand out, catching the puck mid-air with a satisfying smack. He groans as I toss the puck back into play, giving myself a mental pat on the back.
“That's all you’ve got?” I taunt, feeling the rush of adrenaline. “My grandmother could shoot better than that.”
She can’t—but you get what I’m saying.
The drills continue and my mind keeps wandering. I wonder what Austin is doing right now. Lecturing a class? Telling another poor undergrad they’ve got no chance of an extension on their paper? Teaching the future of the world while I’m here in a cold rink, chasing pucks and nagging my teammates.
What does a guy like me even have to offer someone like her? She’s got degrees on her wall, a sharp wit, and a life filled with intellectual conversations. And me? I’ve got a stick and a pair of skates. Pads and a face mask.
Big.
Dumb.
Jock.
Who drives a big, dumb, truck.
Eventually, Coach’s whistle blows to signal the end of practice; we skate to the bench and I grab my water bottle. The guys are still ribbing me as we head off the ice—I let it roll off my back. Let them talk.
Let them speculate.
Because the truth is, they’re not wrong.
And I know the first thing I’m going to do when I’m dressed is send Austin a message because I just cannot fucking resist.