Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 83109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
He’s fiercely loyal. He cares about people, even if he doesn’t know them. His outlook on life might be naive, but fuck, everyone could use some naivety—to see the world through the eyes of someone who only sees the good in people.
From the moment I walked into the Vegas locker room, Dex was my best friend. He was the first to welcome me, the first to offer to hang out, and he’s been constantly by my side ever since. Somewhere along the way, my feelings just happened. One day we were on the ice for our warm-up skate before a game, and after I did my usual stretching and talking to my crossbar asking for cooperation, Dex skated up to me and held out his fist for me to bump.
It was our own pregame ritual, just between us. Fist bump, chest bump, hug, then a fake-out high five. In that order. Juvenile maybe, but the crowd who’s there early enough for warm-ups love it. It wasn’t supposed to become a thing, but it did.
And it was in that moment, doing something we had done together thousands of times, that I realized I was in love with him.
We lost that game in a shutout where I let in seven goals before Coach pulled me off and replaced me with Reeves, our backup goalie, who was a rookie at the time and couldn’t stop a bullet to save his life. I lost my game because I knew, without a doubt, I was already in too deep with Dex.
There was no falling out of love with him, and I hated myself for it.
“Tripp?” Dex’s brown eyes hold the kind of insecurity they usually do when a reporter asks about goal percentages, and he stands there with his lips parted and an “uhhhh” sound coming out his mouth. I swear some of them ask simply to make him look dumb.
“Right. Sorry. Vows.” The urge to run out of here is overwhelming, but I can’t do that to Dex. He’s too precious, and even though this feels real to me, like I’ve been transported into an alternate dimension and Dex is somehow in love with me too, none of it is.
We’re not even going to file the paperwork.
This is an experiment.
A goof.
It’s not real.
But as I say the words “I, Tripp Alexander Mitchell, take you, Dexter James Mitchale, to be my husband, through the good times and bad. Through successes and struggles …” I realize that I mean it all.
This might be fake, but my vows are very real.
And as much as this memory will crush me for years to come, adding layers and layers to the unrequited love suffocating my heart, I can’t walk out on him.
We try to exchange rings and then quickly realize we shouldn’t swap but wear our own. Dex is taller and leaner than I am, so I can barely get his Stanley Cup ring on my fat finger.
I’m bulked out with enough muscle to fill the net but am still toned and flexible enough to move swiftly and protect the goal. Dex is built for speed.
“I now pronounce you married,” our officiant, who’s about eighty years old, says. Hey, at least he’s not an Elvis impersonator. “You may now kiss your husband.”
There’s an awkward pause where Dex’s gaze ping-pongs between the officiant and me. “Only I would’ve forgotten about this part.”
I lean forward and press my lips to his cheek softly. It’s not like we’ve never done that before.
Hell, one time after Dex scored a goal, he skated all the way down the other end to me and planted a kiss on my cheek while I lifted my helmet to get a drink of water.
This kind of affection is normal for us.
I break my lips from him, but Dex doesn’t let me get far. He wraps his arms around my back, and he pulls me against him.
“It’s our wedding, boo. You have to do better than that.” The next minute, his lips are on mine.
A squeak comes from the back of my throat, but then I lean into it.
If this is the only chance I’ll ever get to kiss Dex Mitchale, I’m going to take it.
I expect him to pull away, to keep it short and sweet, but surprising me again, his tongue parts my lips and dives into my mouth. My hands grip his suit jacket as I kiss him back. He kisses me like I’m breakable. It’s slow, sweet, consuming.
I hate it.
It’s the worst thing he’s ever unknowingly done.
Because as we stand at an altar, promising ourselves to each other and sealing it with a kiss, my heart has never experienced such pain.
As soon as our mouths break apart, this will be over, and I will be crushed.
I try to burn the final seconds into my mind, and then with what little self-control I have left, I step back, keeping my head low so he can’t see my glassy eyes.