Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 200(@200wpm)___ 160(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 200(@200wpm)___ 160(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
So…maybe we say screw the rules and make our own.
"Um, I think we broke the rules about four exits ago," I tease to lighten the mood.
His lips lift slightly, one brow winging toward his hairline as he starts his truck. The engine rumbles to life, vibrating the entire cab. "Pretty sure we broke them as soon as we met, Emilia."
"True. You did kidnap me from a locker room at the speed of light."
"You're working hard on that revisionist history, I see."
"Glad you noticed my effort."
His smile grows, banishing the shadows from his eyes as he puts the truck in reverse, backing out of his spot. I watch him out of the corner of my eye for several minutes before I feel compelled to speak again.
"Since we broke the rules already, how about we ditch the rest of the rulebook, and make our own?" It's not a novel concept, but it is a dangerous one. If my dad finds out anything about this, he's going to lose his proverbial shit. It doesn't matter that I'm twenty-four. He's still my father. He's also Nash's boss for all intents and purposes. And he's rungs above me on the ladder around here, too. This could end in disaster.
"What are your rules, baby girl?" Nash asks, cutting his eyes at me.
I think quickly, not entirely sure I have any. At least none I'm not willing to let him break.
"No more doing what we did tonight," I decide.
A growl of displeasure rumbles from his side of the truck.
"Oh! I don't mean the stuff in the hall. Definitely do more of that. Please do more of that. I meant the whole making a public spectacle thing," I quickly clarify. "We need to at least try to be professional when we're at the arena. I don't want to be labeled as a puck bun–" I break off, wrinkling my nose. "Have I mentioned yet how much I dislike that term?"
"Puck bunny?"
"Yes!" I cry. "Bunnies are prey. They're innocent little creatures hunted by predators. Hockey players aren't predators, and the women who sleep with them aren't prey. I know it's meant to be an insult, but it's honestly kind of infantilizing in a way not intended, as if they're not fully involved in their decisions to sleep with hockey players."
He glances over at me again. "What would you call them?"
"Sexually liberated women hockey players like to fu–"
"Do not finish that sentence," he growls, making me laugh.
"You asked."
"I regret it already."
I fall back against the seat, smirking at him. "I don't remember what we were talking about now."
"You were telling me how you don't want to be labeled a sexually liberated woman a hockey player likes to fuck," he says, deadpan.
"Just one, huh? Smooth, Whatley. Very smooth."
"Didn't even have to try." He shoots me another look as we roll through a green light. "I hate everyone you've ever seen naked."
"So…just your teammates, then." I grimace. "And Chad."
"Who the fuck is Chad?"
"We went to college together. He's the reason I didn't know sex was magical until…" I pretend to look at my phone. "Twenty minutes ago."
"What the fuck did he do to you, Emilia? I'll end him," Nash says, his voice dropping so low it sounds like thunder rumbling across the cab of the truck.
"Whoa. Make that sound again. That was hot."
"Start talking, princess," he growls.
"He didn't do anything to me. Well," I amend. "That's not entirely true. Sexual harassment is sexual harassment. It shouldn't be trivialized."
"You are not making me want to rip his head off and shove it up his ass any less right now," Nash warns, his tone black.
"We were lab partners my freshman year. He decided to whip his dick out in the middle of a study session and try to shove it in my hand."
"Jesus fucking Christ."
"If it makes you feel better, I punched him in the throat."
His lips curve into a wicked smile. "That does help. I still want to shove his own head up his ass, but good girl. Never let some asshole put his fucking hands on you without permission."
My stomach flutters at his praise. I do not hate when he calls me that.
"Anyway, he spent the rest of the year telling everyone I assaulted him. He left out the part where he pulled his dick out and tried to force it into my hand," I mutter. "He was popular. I wasn't. It was a very isolating experience."
"What a little prick."
"It was actually. And weird looking."
Nash doesn't laugh.
"I think he's the reason I decided to declare as a psych major, honestly. My mental health needed serious work that year." I tuck strands of hair behind my ear. "I don't want to end up in that same headspace because everyone thinks I'm sleeping my way through the team. It may surprise you, but I'm actually pretty good at this mental health thing."