Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“I…” Ugh. “I was having a rough moment yesterday before the game, and I took it out on her.”
“On Darcy?” Merritt yelps. “Bummer. I always thought she might have a thing for you. She gets, like, tongue-tied when you talk to her.”
I lift my eyes and find DeLuca smiling at me. He winks, but he doesn’t say anything. He promised me he wouldn’t tell anyone else about Darcy’s rogue text message.
“Who’d want a piece of this?” I point out. “She could do better.”
“That’s the spirit.” DeLuca slaps me on the ass. “Pull yourself together, Captain. The bus for the airport leaves in ninety minutes. Get up. Go back to your own room and shower. Eat a bagel, drink some coffee.”
“Everything looks better after breakfast,” Merritt says.
Does it, though? “How come you’re so cheery? We lost the fucking game.”
“You could look at it that way,” Merritt says. “Or you could feel a little gratitude that we made it to the third round, which is better than last year. And now we get a vacation. I’m hoping to take my girl to the beach.’’
“And I’m hoping to tag along,” DeLuca says. “We might rent a house, if we can find one. Drown our sorrows at the beach. You should come.”
“He has to go to some wedding shower,” Merritt says. “He ranted about that, too.”
The fucking wedding. “I hate my life.”
“Last night was brutal,” DeLuca agrees. “That’s why you need coffee and a shower. Things might look better then.”
I heave myself out of the bed to find out if he’s right.
He is. Sort of. I still have a pounding headache, but a shower and some clean clothes help. At least I look human.
Then I head for the lobby, where I purchase a black coffee for me and a double cappuccino with skim milk for Darcy. It won’t be hard to find her—on road trips, she’s never far from the lobby. Her responsibilities seem to include anticipating anything that could go wrong and then fixing it before it does.
True to form, I find Darcy standing beside a potted fern near the front entrance to the hotel. She’s wearing a dress in Legends blue that makes her legs look endless, and she’s frowning at her phone.
Don’t look at her legs, asshole. I yank my chin upward. “Morning, Darcy. Could I have a minute of your time?”
Chapter 8
That’s My Coffee Order
Darcy
I glance up, and my foolish heart does a stupid flip. Argh. In my defense, the human body is just not built to resist the sight of Eric Tremaine in a suit and tie, his hair still damp from the shower.
And he’s smiling at me.
Still, I keep my gaze cool. “Is there an issue?”
“Well, yeah. Hi.” He gives me a wave. “I’m the problem. It’s me.”
The corners of my mouth twitch involuntarily. “Did you just quote Taylor Swift?”
“She said it best.” He shrugs. “Here—this is a double capp with skim milk.” He hands me a cup.
I stare down at it. “That’s my coffee order.”
“I know. It’s a peace offering.”
Okay. Wow. I take a deep breath. “Thank you. That was kind.”
“It’s the least I could do.” He clears his throat. “Look, yesterday I was a total asshole. The way I spoke to you was just plain wrong, and I’m very sorry.”
“Oh.” Something warm unfurls in my chest. Most guys on the team would rather take a puck to the face than admit they’d been wrong. Words—actual, vulnerable words—aren’t part of the playbook.
But here’s Eric, standing in front of me with genuine remorse, offering not just coffee but accountability. It’s so unexpected that I’m not even sure how to process it.
“I appreciate that,” I say finally, and I’m surprised to realize how much I mean it. “Most guys would’ve just pretended it never happened.”
“Most guys could do better, then.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I’d rather face this head-on than spend the next month wondering if you’re secretly plotting to swap my hair gel with superglue.”
I laugh despite myself. “That’s… actually not the worst idea.”
“See? This is why I can’t afford to be on your bad side. You’re too creative.”
I study him over the rim of my cup. The thing is, I’ve worked with athletes long enough to know that apologies like this don’t come naturally to them. They’re trained to forget their mistakes instantly, to never look back, to focus only on the next play. The fact that Eric is breaking that pattern feels significant in a way I can’t quite name.
“Well,” I say, feeling strangely off-balance, “consider yourself forgiven, Captain.”
“Thank you,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m told that I tried to apologize last night, but I was in no shape. I had a lot of whiskey…”
I roll my eyes.
“I know, I know. You never should have had to deal with me anyway. Yesterday afternoon, when I saw you, I was having…” He gulps, then drops his voice to a whisper. “… A panic attack.”