Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 87771 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87771 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Same here.”
I just hope you’re saying the same thing after tomorrow’s game.
The loud clink of a pool ball smacking against another came from my left. I glanced just in time to catch Gabe bending over, his jeans tight around his ass and legs.
I snatched my gaze away, focusing instead on the back of some man’s balding head. I’d been catching myself doing that a lot. Sneaking looks in Gabe’s direction. It wasn’t even like I was consciously trying to be creepy or anything. For some reason, I just found myself naturally looking in his direction.
I needed to stop that shit. I shouldn’t be ogling my own teammates—that made things messy. I also wasn’t in the headspace to be looking at other men, whether I found them insanely attractive or not. My last relationship not only ended on a terrible note, but my ex had left some invisible wounds that I continued to struggle with. Emotional hurt that still dimmed my light, and now was not the time to open myself up to more pain.
Although…
No. I’ve got to get him out of my head.
“You and Gabe are a force on the ice.”
Well, there goes my decision to not even think about the guy.
I gave a dry nod. “He’s a great sniper. Awesome at offense.”
Gabriel played as right wing, which was an offensive position that required one to be aggressive about getting the puck and keeping it. Lots of shit-talking and body slamming was involved. I played right defense, which meant I typically had Gabe’s back on the ice. It was—as the name suggested—a primarily defensive position. I worked hard to make sure the other team didn’t even get a chance to try and shoot for a goal.
“A great what?” Dylan asked with a tone that surprised me.
“Sniper,” I repeated, louder this time. “He’s a great sniper.”
“Ohh, right,” Dylan said with a laugh. He sounded relieved.
What the hell did he think I called him?
“You’re right, Gabe’s a star.”
“He is, he is.”
“And so are you.” Dylan poked my bicep.
That bit was harder for me to believe. “I’m just glad to be in a team surrounded by talent. I feel like everyone here is playing on the NHL level. It’s inspiring.”
“I think a lot of it has to do with how close we are. Us Bobcats, we’re like a family. We also really just fucking love hockey. It’s in our bones. My dad and my grandfather both played, my dad going to the playoffs for the Stanley Cup twice. My grandmother used to be a center for the Seattle Chargers. My mom, she’s the most badass of them all—she played in the PWHL until a really bad knee injury took her out. Now she’s one of the regular reporters and analysts for ESPN.”
“Holy shit, that is hockey through and through.”
“It is, it is.” Dylan cocked his head. He had bright blue eyes that were simultaneously beautiful and intimidating. Like he was looking through me, scanning my deepest, most intimate secrets. I looked away, as if that would help sever whatever imaginary connection I was feeling.
“I can’t say I have such a deep-rooted history with hockey, but it is something that my parents were obsessed with. My family didn’t have much money growing up, so whenever we’d save up some entertainment money, it would go toward a night out watching a hockey game. I started playing around five years old, going through the junior system. In high school, I picked up a gig at a coffee shop to pay for all the shit I needed and help my parents out.”
Dylan nodded and smiled at that. He was definitely one of the guys I clicked with best. We bonded pretty quickly when his love of Broadway was mentioned in the locker room. It wasn’t exactly the most common thing for a “typical” hockey player to be into, so it was nice to see that someone else besides me shared the same interests. Besides being a model, I could also see Dyl being an actor in another life. If the rink hadn’t called to him, I was sure the stage would have. He enjoyed attention, but not in an obnoxious way. More like in the way a golden retriever would happily sit in the middle of a house party with his tongue lolling out as long as they were getting pets.
We continued to chat a little more about our past with hockey until Dyl’s attention was pulled away by Emerson. He called him back over to the table to settle some bet.
I checked my watch. It was already nine. Damn, time had flown by pretty fast. I figured I could use a hot shower and some downtime before tomorrow’s game. I pushed off the bar, turned around, and closed my tab, tipping the kind bartender, who I was sure I’d be seeing around. I turned back to the group but stopped midway, frozen.