Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
In a few terribly short seconds, I already want to toss her over my shoulder and take her home. See if she looks as good in my ties, bound to her wrists, as she does in that vest.
But just as quickly as it started, the kiss ends. Over after it barely began. I don’t know if she wrenches apart first or if I do. Maybe we both knew we needed to stop. I swallow roughly. She catches her breath.
My brain comes back online, and I reconnect to the fog, the night, the rustle of people, the birds, a car nearby.
And, most of all, the onlooker.
Right…Miranda.
The kiss lasted less than ten seconds. It was a kiss for an audience. A kiss for a cause. But mostly, it was a stolen kiss for me.
Miranda rolls her eyes, then says to me, “You’re not even that hot.”
Maeve scoffs and tugs me harder against her. “My date is the hottest, and you know it.”
“Whatever.” Miranda lifts a dismissive hand, wheels around, and marches back into the mansion.
Maeve looks at me, affection in her eyes. “You’re totally hot. Don’t let her get you down,” she says, patting my chest in a friendly way.
Friendly.
The kiss wasn’t friendly, but we are.
And if I needed a better reason to get this lust for Maeve out of my system, she just gave it to me—the reminder that we’re friends. That the kiss didn’t rattle her. That gust of breath or not, parted lips or not, that stolen kiss is barely a blip on her radar.
Maybe that’s what I really needed tonight—a sign, rather than some luck. And I got it—a sign that we’re just friends.
Still, when I’m home alone that night, I’m stupidly replaying a ten-second kiss.
A couple days later, as I’m tugging on a hoodie so I can head to morning skate with my teammate Max, my phone pings with a notification. It’s a reversal of the transfer I made to Beckett. I roll my eyes. Ever since I met him in a grief support group ten years ago, he’s always been the stubborn one, nearly impossible to sway once his mind’s made up.
But I don’t back down easily either. I take his hundred grand and send it back through the banking channels one more time – this time funneling it to Total Teamwork.
Asher: Have it your way. A hundred thousand dollars to the new charity we’re launching instead.
Beckett: Always have to have the last word, don’t you?
Asher: Yes, I do. I’m stubborn like that.
A note from Maeve pops up too.
Maeve: Evidently, I am a vest thief. Obviously, I wore it home and now it’s trying to move into my apartment. Sneaky little thing. But I should probably, I don’t know, dry clean it? Does anyone use dry cleaning anymore? Does dry cleaning even exist? Does it only exist for lawyers, bankers and athletes who wear suits? What even is dry cleaning?
I chuckle at how very Maeve she is as I head to the door. Max will be here any minute to pick me up. But I dictate a reply.
Asher: No, you don’t need to dry clean it. Also, it looked good on you. You should just keep it. Make vests a thing.
Maeve: I think they’re already a thing.
Asher: Well, then. They’re your thing.
Maeve: Really?
Asher: Yes. Keep it. I mean it.
Truth is, I’d probably sniff it for a hint of her if she returned it. It’s better she doesn’t give it back.
That night, I’m on the ice, determined to demolish Phoenix. The crowd roars as I battle against the boards, trying to shake off a defender who’s hellbent on stripping the puck from me.
Not going to happen. This puck is mine. We’re in the third period, tied up, and every second counts.
I knock my shoulder into him, spinning free. I hoard the puck as I slip behind the net, then fly around it. When I spot an opening I cut across the ice, aiming for the top corner of the posts. I wind up and send the puck flying—but the goalie deflects it.
I curse, but then move the hell on when Falcon nabs the rebound and feeds it right back to me.
I don’t hesitate. I fake left, then snap a shot right, the puck sailing past the goalie’s glove this time, lodging in the twine.
The lamp lights, and everything feels right in the world. Adrenaline surges through me, the rush unmatched by anything else. Hockey has always been the greatest high. Even when it hurts, it feels good. Even when it’s tough, I’m in control. There’s nothing else in the world that gives itself to me the way this sport does.
I hop over the boards and grab some water during the line change, but my thoughts drift back to the night of the auction. To that moment when Maeve wrapped her arms around me and I stole a kiss—one she seemed to sink into.