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)
My gaze has not left the ice once. It is entirely riveted to the center of the hockey rink as if a magnetic force is dragging it there. An asteroid could land behind us and I wouldn’t notice.
And damn, did I mention how unbelievably hot Weston looks in his uniform?
Normally I’m not really a fan of hockey uniforms because truthfully, those pants make the guys’ hips look huge—I mean, I’m talking wide—but I will say this: the stark white of River Glen’s home jersey sets off Weston’s tan skin, currently flushed with sweat and adrenaline, to perfection.
Now, if only those pants were tighter (like, you know, baseball pants) and didn’t have all that padding—that would be a sight.
Down on the ice, Weston is crouching for more speed, his hockey skates slicing swiftly across the ice. With deft precision, we all watch as he rapidly cuts the puck back and forth with his stick as he rushes the opposing goalie, demonstrating how he earned a reputation as the superstar player he’s become.
The goalie flies in front of him and manages to block his attempt. Weston skates wide, and I am at the edge of my seat, holding my breath.
Anyone can see that he has natural talent, and he’s definitely on a mission.
Weston passes the puck to Brody Russell, presenting him with a golden opportunity at a chance for a breakaway, but Brody soon loses control of the puck and allows a defender from the opposing team to steal before he can get the puck back to Weston. Everyone in the stands gives a collective groan, and parents are shouting. Our student section is going wild. The puck goes back and forth between RGHS and the opposing team.
Suddenly, Weston gets a centering pass from the corner and blasts it past the goalie’s glove. The noise from the crowd is deafening, accompanied by the sirens going off. My ears are ringing. People are jumping in their seats and screaming.
He’s done it.
Three goals in one game.
Skating over to his teammates, they quickly celebrate the point, and Weston skates around with his fist in the air. My heart is beating so fast just watching him. How hot can one guy possibly be? Then he’s skating by, stick in the air as he stares up into the stands, and I receive his message loud and clear.
Those were all for me…
A few short hours later, it’s past eleven o’clock and I’m nestled deep under my down comforter on my back, staring up at the ceiling. It’s too dark to see anything but the remnants of small glow-in-the-dark stars sprinkled above my bed from my youth. They’re not bright enough to cast a light, but if you strain your eyes, you can still see them casting a dull spark.
I won’t lie—as I lie here, a tidal wave of disappointment has washed over me, because I thought maybe at this point Weston would have…something. I don’t know. I’m embarrassed to even admit it, but I was hoping he would have gotten ahold of me maybe? Texted me? Ugh, what if he lost my number? Which makes me wonder, how did he get my number to begin with? Don’t judge me. I know this is ridiculous—after all, we’re nothing to each other but noodle buddies—but…you know how girls are, always overthinking things, wishing on stars and praying (when I don’t even pray for good grades).
Dear Lord, please let him call me. Please let him like me. Please let me know he just can’t stop thinking about me either.
Please, please, please…
As the dark takes over, I make a futile effort to close my eyes, but all I can do is stare at the ceiling, counting fading stars. I glance over at the alarm clock on my bedside table.
11:11
Make a wish, my head whispers.
I wish Weston would send me a—wait.
Hold on one second.
My phone lights up the dark, indicating I have a new text message.
My stomach flutters, and even though I’m absolutely alone, I reach for it nonchalantly anyway, not wanting to be too eager.
Holy hockey sticks, it’s him.
Weston: You up?
I swear to you, if I weren’t tucked in this bed, I would be doing a happy dance in the middle of my room right now. I resist the urge to pump my fist and scream out in the dark. Instead, I grab a throw pillow and shriek “Ahh!” into it. How horrifying would it be if my parents heard and came running into my room, thinking there was an emergency, or that I was being abducted, giving everyone a heart attack like the one I’m having now? Yeah, exactly. I can see myself explaining it now: Nothin’ to see here, folks! Not being murdered! Just receiving texts from the hottest freaking boy you’ve never met, in the middle of the night.
Me: Yup, wide awake and staring at the ceiling. You?