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)
In here, I face a different kind of hell: It’s time for training camp for the full team, which means Eric is on the premises day in and day out. When I’m at my desk, I see him seated at his. Or he’s chatting up players in the lounge when I go in for coffee, or he’s tearing up the ice at practice.
Today is no exception. As I set down the boss’s lunch, I see Eric on the ice, leading some players through warm-ups. A bunch of journalists have been invited to watch today’s practice, which means that several photographers are pointing cameras at the guys, while the PR director makes the rounds on the sidelines, and his new intern—Heather—dashes around, capturing her own images.
“Eric, over here!” she chirps. “Smile!”
Without missing a beat, he looks up and smiles. And a dozen shutters click all at once. Everybody wants his attention. That’s just how it is to be Eric.
“Darcy,” Sharp says. “Did you hear what I just said?”
“Maybe, sir, but I ignored it,” I say, turning my attention to my boss. “I live to make you repeat things.”
He gives me a grumpy frown and hands me a folder. “Proofread this, please. But show it to no one. The minute we announce the roster, this goes to the printer.”
I flip open the cover and find four pages of player stats. Several names have been crossed out already, which is why it’s top secret. “Of course. I’m looking for misspellings and…?”
“Any data that looks wrong. Or, well, less than credible.”
“Fine. Sure.” I know the players well enough by now that it’s easy work. I take a seat and start reading. The basics look accurate enough—names and hometowns. But it’s easy to spot some telltale signs of creative self-reporting. There’s a rookie listed at six feet three inches who wouldn’t reach six feet in my spikiest heels. And a veteran defenseman claiming to weigh in at two fifteen when he’s clearly carrying at least thirty more pounds than that.
Ouch. And somebody thinks that Minnesota has two Ss.
I glance up, and my heart suddenly flips as I catch Eric staring at me.
Hi, I telegraph. You see how awkward this is? Did I call it or what? Now go play some hockey.
He doesn’t look away, though, until Zoe nudges him. She’s about to give a clinic on edgework or world domination or whatever else we need to win the Cup this year.
I go back to proofreading.
“Where’s the biscuit?” my boss asks, rooting around in his lunch bag.
My pen pauses mid-page. “I didn’t get you a biscuit.”
“But I asked for a biscuit with my soup.”
I don’t even look up. “Sir, you also told me last week that your doctor said you need to stop eating those biscuits.”
“Oh, so then you were listening?”
“Yes.”
“Surprised there aren’t two biscuits in here, then,” he says. “Most of the time lately, it seems like you want me dead.”
“Maybe. I’d like to win the Cup first, though.”
He laughs. Then he balls up the paper bag and throws it at me.
And misses.
“Late lunch? Early coffee?” Zoe asks, arriving at my desk with the flushed cheeks of someone who skates for a living.
“Definitely.” I check my inbox one last time, then push back from my desk. “We can’t eat here, though.”
“Why not?”
I tilt my head toward the captain’s workstation, where Eric is seated with his feet on the desk, leaning back in his ergonomic chair like a king.
Calder—who has so far survived the roster cuts—is perched on the visitor’s stool like a page at the foot of a knight.
Zoe glances over and smirks as she follows me out of the office area. “Office hours, huh? What a scam.”
“He said he wants to act like more of a professional.” I sigh.
Zoe hoots. “He already acts more professional than the entire cast of Suits. You didn’t fall for that, did you? He’s there for you. He misses you!”
I’m already shaking my head as we glide down the escalator toward the lobby. “You’re reading too much into it. He just spent a couple weeks lifting weights and running stairs in Colorado. Now he’s back, and he sees me and thinks—wouldn’t it be so convenient if Darcy was still my friend with benefits?”
Zoe looks thoughtful. “I don’t know. This feels bigger than that. I’ve never seen him moon over anyone. Maybe he wants to try for more. Didn’t you tell me he said he really likes you? Right before you shot him down?”
“He did. But then he specifically invited me over to his apartment. For sex.”
“Oh,” she says softly.
“I mean—his intentions are clear. We have lots of chemistry. He wants a sexual partner. And he’s a fantastic human being. But he’s not my fantastic human being, and I can’t live like that. He doesn’t date, Zoe. You know this.”
“His track record for dating isn’t great,” she admits as we get onto the next escalator.