Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
“As if you would!”
“So then I forgot I had my iPod on—”
“Was he a jerk?” Jenna interrupts, leaning forward, tipping the chair up on its front legs. I bite my lip and gaze at it nervously. She is so going to fall, or the chair legs are going to break off—either way, not good.
“No. He was…” Dreamy. “Nice. It was pleasant.”
“Ew. Nice is boring. Was he coming on to you? Did he flirt?”
“Nice isn’t boring, Jenna. We had fun.” Actually, I wanted to climb into his lap.
“You know what, Molly? I live for this shit. The least you can do is humor me, for crying out loud. Give me something! Anything! Don’t use words like ‘nice’ and ‘fun’!” She throws her arms in the air, exasperated.
My phone beeps.
Picking it up, a number pops up onto my screen that I don’t recognize, but I immediately know who it’s from.
I think my heart just stopped.
212-555-9083: Are you coming to my game this week?
How on Earth did Weston get my number? I look up at Jenna, who is staring at me expectantly.
I swallow hard.
“Why do you look like you just crapped your pants?” she asks crassly. Hey, I didn’t say she was my classiest friend.
“Er…” Suddenly, Jenna is jumping—no, tripping—off the chair and bouncing on the bed next to me. The chair actually falls and hits the desk, toppling unceremoniously and landing on its side. She snatches my phone up and begins shrieking.
“Holy shit! Holy shit, Molly! Weston McGrath has the hots for you! For you, my best friend!” She clutches the phone to her chest and squeals.
Loudly.
“Shhh, shhh! Oh my god, be quiet, will you?” I’m hissing at her now, but she couldn’t care less. She carries on like One Direction has just walked into the room. I keep shushing her. “Jenna, shut up before my parents hear you.”
“You have to respond.” She gasps. “Put ‘Hell yeah, baby,’ and then—”
I start laughing because she’s actually being serious.
She is always making me laugh. “Give me the damn phone back, you freak.” I sit there, biting my lip. Wait…what do I want to say? After thinking about it for a few more seconds and swatting Jenna away several times, I start typing.
Me: I would consider it…but I don’t even know who this is
There. That sounds flirty but not too enthusiastic.
“Why did you put that!” Jenna shouts, flapping her arms in exasperation. “You should just tell him you’re going! Ugh, you’re so going to ruin this, I just know it,” she accuses, pacing around my room like a caged tiger.
My phone dings again.
212-555-9083: You know who this is.
Me: I do? Weird. I don’t recognize this number
212-555-9083: You come to my game and I’ll score a goal for you.
Me: (rolling my eyes) One goal? I *might* get out of bed for a hat trick
“Oh my god, why would you say that? What’s a hat trick? You are such a weirdo! Program him into your phone already, would you? This is driving me nuts!”
“You are driving me nuts,” I say to her. My stomach is in knots and my hands are actually sweating—sweating, if you can believe it. Ugh, gross. “A hat trick is a hockey term, Jenna. It means one person scores three goals in one game.”
Duh.
I am so nervous. I click on Weston’s phone number, quickly adding him to my contacts.
About fifteen torturous minutes go by before he responds. Doesn’t he know how rude it is to keep a girl waiting like that?
Weston: I’ll see what i can do
Well then.
CHAPTER 9
WESTON
“If you weren’t such a douche, maybe you’d score off the ice too.”
– random jackass
I can’t help but wonder if she’ll show up.
So far, after scanning the crowd like a whipped puppy, I haven’t caught sight of her, and believe me, I’ve been watching.
I am standing in the sin-bin—otherwise known as the penalty box—for hooking an opposing player with my stick, and I take the opportunity to remove my helmet. The reprieve is only two minutes, but it’s giving me back the energy I need to get back in the game.
My hair is sticking to my forehead from the sweat dripping down it, and there is blood on my tongue. The gash in the corner of my mouth must have torn when my opponent elbowed me in the chin—the same player who was talking trash during the face-off at the beginning of the game.
Which is pretty typical, actually.
But still. The little prick.
I reach up and wipe the blood away with the heel of my palm before strapping my helmet back on. I look up in the stands and see my mom pumping her fists at the action on the ice. She’s waving a giant foam finger and her River Glen High sweatshirt has my button on it.
Jeez, Mom.
My dad, on the other hand, is sitting quietly to her right. His arms are crossed and he’s leaning forward. From here, I can see that his eyebrows are furrowed and his hard features are set in a rigid line. He has a dark mustache framing most of his mouth, which my mom hates, but I know he’s frowning nevertheless.