Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
And then I see Miles pushing off a weight bench, standing, taking off his shirt.
My pulse jackhammers.
Must. Not. Stare.
This is a test. The universe is simply testing me. And really, I’ve been around hockey players my whole life.
I ignore the curl of lust twisting through my veins. Stepping farther into the room, I take a quick, steadying breath, and say, “Hi, guys. I’m Leighton.”
Kill me now.
My voice comes out all annoyingly breathy. My cheeks flush as I square my shoulders, soldiering on and willing the splash of heat to get the fuck off my face.
“I’m a photographer,” I add, waggling my Nikon bag like it’s show-and-tell in kindergarten, but I still sound high-pitched, like talking to a group of high-octane, testosterone-fueled elite athletes is all new to me. “I’ll be here taking all sorts of promo photos throughout training camp, pre-season, and the start of the season. And then for a few months.”
And…I sound like a kid listing the timeline of my job, like anyone cares.
I feel even more like one when Chanda steps in beside me, saving everyone from my over-eager prattling. “Leighton’s filling in for Mako. So, just do your thing, guys. I’ll send out a daily schedule of photo opps, but expect that she’ll be taking pics of drills, practices, ice time, and lots of fun behind-the-scenes stuff,” she says, and I focus on the whole weight room, and all the guys in here, rather than the one with his shirt off, his hand resting on the silver bar—the one who’s looking at me. “Anything you don’t want posted, just let us know,” Chanda adds. “But we’ll start with the workout since, well, fans love a workout shot. Good?”
Why didn’t I just say that? She sent me those details too.
“You’re not wrong. My girlfriend loves shirtless shots of me. I like to make sure she has plenty every day,” Alexei says, and the Saint Petersburg-born player is definitely not lacking in the confidence department.
Chanda laughs, amused by him. “Great. Leighton will make sure Freya has even more for her collection, and the rest of our fans too.”
Alexei turns to me, pressing his hands together in a mock prayer and giving me an imploring grin. “Also, I went on a special training regimen this summer. Can you let Coach know? Really, I’m in peak form.”
Hugo rolls his eyes at him. “Dude, Mini Mac is not here to curry favor with the coach on your behalf.” Then, the big-hearted, burly defenseman shoots me a grin. Hugo plays for Sweden in international competitions, and has lived in the U.S. since grade school. “But if you were passing on nice words to your pops, just know I lifted every damn day and did sprints. I could throw in a box of my wife’s cookies to sweeten the deal. Big Mac loves those.”
Rowan rolls his eyes their way as he moves onto biceps curls. “Or you could try playing better, assholes.”
“Language, Bishop,” Christian calls out from his spot by the leg-press machine, shaking his blond head like he’s had enough of these guys, and like he thinks I haven’t heard worse. But he’s the captain, so it’s his job, I suppose, to keep these guys in line. He’s also Josie’s big brother. “Ignore these idiots, Leighton. Just like I do. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will,” I say as he strides over and sticks out a hand. I shake it. “And it’s good to meet you, Christian.”
“You too, Leighton,” he replies.
“Welcome aboard, Mini Mac One,” Alexei adds, all serious now.
“Nice to meet you, Mini Mac One,” Hugo calls out, waving.
“Hey,” Rowan grunts.
Now I see why Miles didn’t know my name. My sister must be Mini Mac Two. And it’s clear “Leighton” probably isn’t going to stick with any of these guys. I’m not even sure if Miles is going to acknowledge me. What do our brand-new friendship rules call for? No clue.
But then the man I deliberately looked away from clears his throat and takes a step closer to me. “Welcome to the jungle, Leighton,” he says, meeting my gaze with a steady, no-nonsense look of his own. He turns to the guys. “Let’s let her do her thing.”
And yes, it is a jungle in here. All the man-imals know I’m essentially the boss’s daughter, even if Miles is calling me by my name.
Looks like I’ll have to earn their respect the old-fashioned way—with talent, grit, and by pretending a certain player’s shirtless workouts don’t make me blush.
Oh, and one more thing—throwing a little gasoline on their competitive fire.
“Let’s get some pictures. We can let the fans decide who worked out hardest in the off-season,” I say, and there’s a flurry of activity as the guys instantly snap into focus to prove who’s the strongest, toughest, best among them.
Not only do I survive the first shoot, but I capture one hell of a story—competition. The guys push harder, lift more, and do extra reps. Intensity etches across their faces, muscles strained, beads of sweat trailing down their skin.