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)
I live for this shit!
Between plays, he glances up at the stands and points his stick in my direction, a subtle but unmistakable acknowledgment at my presence. Nova nudges me, her grin so wide it might split her face in two.
“See?” she says smugly. “He loves it. You’re his muse.”
“His muse?” I repeat, rolling my eyes. “More like his nightmare.”
“Same thing.” Nova shrugs, stealing a sip of my beer. “Oh hey—you know what this reminds me of?”
“What?”
“Foreplay.”
I nearly choke on my breath. “What?!”
“You heard me,” she says, entirely too pleased with herself. “The insults, the banter, the way he keeps glancing up here? Foreplay. You two are basically stripping each other naked with words.” I hear her sigh. “I mean, look at the moron. He’s been on fire since you started shouting at him. You’ve unlocked his passion.”
“Or his rage,” I mutter, sinking lower in my seat, though her words linger in the back of my mind, unwelcome and intrusive.
I can’t help it though—can’t help but wonder if she has a point. Him coming to my office unannounced, leaning against my desk with that cocky grin. Me lobbing insults. Watching him glare toward my seat. Watching him stop every puck. Him pointing his stick in my direction….
Thinking about it is getting me so hot.
My stomach is a mess of knots, and my face is practically on fire. I take a long sip of my beer, hoping the cold will cool me down, but it doesn’t help.
I need water.
A cold shower.
And those nachos I was promised.
11
gio
Steam still clings to the bathroom mirror as I rub a towel through my hair, the faint ache in my muscles a satisfying reminder of tonight’s game. The second shower of the night was necessary—post-game adrenaline always leaves me too wired to just crash, and nothing clears my head like scalding water and a moment of silence.
The house is quiet, except for the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the floorboards as I pad barefoot down the hallway.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and flop onto the couch, letting my head rest against the cushions as I unlock my phone.
Gio: Roses are red, violets are blue, that’s two in a row… so I feel like I owe you…
Austin: Wow.
Austin: Just…WOW.
Gio: I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.
There’s a pause, and I can practically feel her debating how to respond. When the three dots finally appear, I stare, waiting.
Austin: Don’t do that.
Gio: Do what?
Austin: Say you’re a poet and didn’t even know it. That’s horrible. So cheesy.
Gio: Sorry??
I’m not sorry. Not even the tiniest bit.
Austin: Okay pal, let’s get down to business. What’s your excuse for letting that puck past you in the first period?
Gio: Distracted by a certain loudmouth in the stands.
I hesitate for half a second before adding: A sexy, little loudmouth.
Austin: Oh, please. I’m your biggest motivator. That’s why I’m paid the big bucks to be there.
I grin.
Gio: Thanks for coming.
Austin: Well, you’re welcome. But honestly it’s because you made me that offer I couldn’t refuse—aka: anything I want, remember?
As if I would forget. She’s got a way of keeping me on my toes, always pushing, always challenging. It’s addicting.
Gio: Right. Have you decided what that ‘anything’ is?
This time, there’s a pause. A long one. Long enough that I check my phone twice to make sure the message was actually sent. Finally, the dots appear, and my stomach does this ill-feeling flip I’m not sure I’m okay with.
Austin: Maybe.
I roll my eyes, already knowing where this is going.
Gio: Great, you’re being cryptic. LOVE that for me.
Austin: You’ll love it when I tell you.
Gio: You’re such a pain in the ass.
It’s true—since we met face-to-face she’s been a total pain in my ass. But she’s also the reason I’ve been grinning like an idiot since that day, too. The reason my heart races every time my phone gets a new notification. The reason I’m sitting here, wondering what it is about her that makes everything feel just a little bit brighter.
I want to see her face, not just see her name.
Without overthinking it, I hit Video Chat and settle into the couch cushion, bracing for the possibility that she might not even pick up.
It rings once.
Twice.
On the third ring, the screen shifts, and there she is. Her hair is fanned out across a bright, white pillow, and the annoyed expression on her face is undercut by how utterly gorgeous she looks.
“You are not seriously video chatting me with no advance warning,” she grumbles, narrowing her eyes at the screen.
I pat myself on the back for interrupting her with no warning.
“I like surprises.”
“I don’t,” she grumbles some more, adjusting the angle of her phone. “I could’ve been in the middle of something, you know.”
“Like what?” I ask, raising a brow. “You’re already in bed.”