Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
At last, she turns to face me, as a soft smile shifts her lips. “Thanks, Lake.”
I let go of her knee. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
It’s not a question. I get out of the car, walk around to her side, and swing open the door. Remy pops up, still holding the champagne bottle, with her hat and a friendship bracelet hanging around its neck.
I want to grab that bracelet, sneak over to Jameson’s stupid beer stand, and shove it up one of the taps, far enough to fuck up his business. For now, I walk Remy toward the front door of an awfully nice Scandinavian minimalist-style place. She nods to the side of the townhome, though, and I follow her to a little porch leading to a guest house.
When she reaches the stoop, she looks up at me. “Thank you again. I really did need that. And I owe you.”
She owes me nothing, but if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s spotting opportunities. “Promise me something, then.”
She tilts her head, her pretty eyes brimming with hopeful curiosity. “That I’ll have a fantastic time hanging out with my plants while I avoid the world the next few days?”
“That. But also this. Promise me you’re not going to take him up on that offer to make a dating profile.”
“Are you offering to help me set one up?”
You’re looking at your profile match, sweetheart. That’s what I want to say, but I’m no good at romance. Instead I say, “When you’re ready to set up your profile, call me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Your phone will ring in a couple of years.”
This makes me unreasonably happy. I tuck my finger under her chin and say, “Chin up, Remy.”
“Chin up,” she repeats, like it’s the night’s mantra.
I let go of her. As I lower my arm, I rub my thumb across the pad of my finger where I touched her. It’s…sparking.
Hell, I am too.
She goes to tap a code on a keypad but stops after one button, then spins back, holding up and waggling the bottle. “Do you want this? I don’t think I’m going to drink it—not tonight, at least.”
“Save it. Crack it open when you’re officially over that jackass who never deserved you.”
“Deal.” She pauses, brow knit, then her lips curve with some amusement. “How did you get a deal and a promise out of me?”
I flash a confident grin. “I’m just that good.”
“Evidently.”
As I walk away, I catch a widening smile, which stays with me down the steps and back to my car. The image tags along as I drive through the fog of late-night San Francisco, across the Golden Gate Bridge, and through the hills of Sausalito, until I reach my quiet home in Cozy Valley, away from all the madness of the city and all the mistakes I made there once upon a time.
* * *
Two days later, passing drills have my thighs screaming in the best of ways, and I skate behind the net, taking an easy lap. Riggs, our left winger, skates behind me.
“I hear you’re an onion,” he says dryly.
I snap my accusing gaze to Miller, who’s guarding the net. “And you’re a rat.”
Miller just shrugs, shooting me a smile from behind his face mask. “I’m a rat. You’re an onion. It’s all good.”
“We can call you Lake Onion and Miller Rat,” Riggs shouts, racing ahead of me.
I catch up easily. “And I’ll call you…Tortoise,” I say, flying past him. Helps being the fastest guy on the team.
That speed helps us win that night’s game, but even I’m not fast enough to evade the head of PR. After the W, he finds me unlacing my skates in front of my stall. With his tablet in hand and perma-grin locked in, Daniel launches his request with some butter: “Lake, of the two clutch goals. Can you talk to the media?”
Riggs barks out a laugh as he chucks his jersey into the laundry bin. “Lake? Talk to the press? More like grunt.”
He’s not wrong. Not usually. “I talked to them the other night,” I point out.
“Two goals, my man. Two goals,” Daniel emphasizes, staring at me with dark eyes.
“But, really,” I bargain, “don’t those goals speak for themselves?”
Daniel laughs lightly, then turns serious. “Nonetheless, you had the most impressive game.”
Joking aside, I hate talking at these after-game interviews, but I’ll be fined if I refuse. Reluctantly, I pull on an athletic shirt and trudge out of the locker room. Immediately, I scan the halls for Remy. I don’t see her chestnut hair, her clever smile. How the hell is she doing? Is she okay?
I wish I knew.
In the media room, I weave past a table of snacks and a crowd of podcasters, bloggers, and sports reporters, then park myself behind the table on the dais at the front of the packed room.