Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Wow. You’re, like, really angry,” Jacobs says.
“I’m not angry. It’s frustrating we’re not gelling on the ice. His reserved nature off it doesn’t help. How did you and Beck work well together even when you hated each other?”
“Sexual tension.”
“Damn. I can’t use that.”
Beside me, Seth snorts.
I eye him. “Eavesdropping much?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
I smile. “Yes, you did.”
“Okay, I did, but I didn’t even know CU had a new person.” He’s doing that weird staring thing again.
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t. I hate hockey.” He eyes me. “Like … I really hate it. The only reason I’m here is for my brother. I’d rather not talk about it at all. You know, with the innings, and—”
I have no idea what he’s rambling about, but he’s cut off by the lights turning out and the preshow starting.
When Grant’s team hits the ice, all the adrenaline and anticipation of the game is amplified. There’s something different about going to watch your old teammate play in a professional arena.
Everything is heightened. It’s louder, the smell of the ice is crisper, and the rhythmic thumping of my heart beats harder.
And okay, my jealous side might be a bit stronger too as I watch Grant take to the ice. All five of us jump out of our seats and cheer when he comes out to skate with the team.
I take a photo of him with my phone and upload it to Instagram with the hashtag #goodluck. I tag the team and Grant, hoping for some shares.
I’ve gained some followers this year, but nowhere near enough to gain traction to make money out of it, no matter how easy Dad thinks it would be.
Once upon a time I thought I was destined to be out there with Grant, but it wasn’t meant to be.
I can be happy for my friend though.
This game is going to be epic.
13
Seth
This game is going to kill me.
My knees are bouncing with the absolute flood of energy pulsing through my veins. Every time Cohen moves, he brushes against my side, and it’s not helping to dislodge this single, ridiculous, absurd theory knocking around in my head.
I wasn’t ready to meet Richie.
Yet I’m pretty sure he’s sitting right next to me.
My heart gives this tiny throb as I flick a glance in his direction. There are too many coincidences that statistically, there’s more chance of it being him than not.
My Richie plays college hockey.
My Richie speaks French insults.
My Richie made out with his childhood best friend, who’s now engaged.
He’s twenty-four.
His team has a new player who’s not working out.
He was at a bar by himself on Thanksgiving. Fuck, drunk Seth is a dumbass. He was in front of me that whole time, and what the hell did I say to him? Did I yell out it’s snowing at one point?
Kill. Me. Now.
Something else occurs to me that I hadn’t even realized before, but Cohen was there when Richie’s order was called in the coffee shop. He’d been at the counter, and I thought he was blocking my view, but maybe he was my view the whole time.
And then after I told Richie about my little Witcher obsession, Cohen dressed as him for Halloween.
A memory of Halloween hits me in sharp relief. Cohen looking at me, gray eyes piercing mine in the shadows outside the frat house. Had I been looking at Richie, getting turned on, without even knowing it?
And now that I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s him, I’m going to be so fucking disappointed if it isn’t. Because Cohen?
Oh, yeah, the attraction’s there.
I want to lean over and tell him exactly who I am, but first, I need to be sure—my message earlier hadn’t gotten me the conclusive evidence I needed. He didn’t flinch and his phone didn’t make a sound, but it could’ve been on silent. And second, I need to test if there’s even the slightest interest on his end.
Beck suddenly jumps to his feet, startling me out of my thoughts. “J’ai pas de couilles! J’ai pas de couilles!”
There are snickers from a few people nearby.
Cohen lets out a loud snort and snaps a photo of Beck yelling and screaming. “He actually said it.”
“I get the sense that didn’t mean what you said it meant.”
“I thought you spoke French?”
“I’ve only been taught that one phrase.” Because I think you told it to me.
Without looking away from the ice, Cohen leans right over into my space. Even after an almost two-hour car ride, he smells like fresh body wash. I hold my breath, unable to believe that after so long, Richie could be sitting this close.
He cups his hand so he’s whispering toward me. “Beck yelled ‘I have no balls.’”
My laugh is short and sharp before I quickly rein it in. “He’ll kill you if he finds out.” And dear God, why is my voice coming out sounding like sex? I try to shake off the weirdness and remind myself I don’t actually know what I think I know.