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)
He spins toward me and tosses the game puck my way.
I catch it, and turn it over in my hands. Maybe I’ll give it to Remy. She could tell this story at the next wedding event, the shared shower or the spa or what-the-fuck-ever is next on the list. I don’t even care. But she could say I gave her a game puck and it’d be as true as the foxes and the succulent, and all the other stories of our romance. Like the cat tower she built for me this afternoon. The little sneak. I didn’t notice it till she’d left, but I’d like to thank her for it. Ideally with my tongue between her thighs. But a simple thanks with words will work too.
“And I expect you to do your jobs in Evergreen Falls as well,” Coach continues. The reminder of our schedule snaps my attention back to the here and now. Our crosstown rivals, the Sea Dogs, have a new minor league team in the Christmas-y town near Lake Tahoe about three and a half hours away. Sometimes they host games there to draw more attention to their affiliate.
When he mentions the plan, and the date for the team bus departure for the road trip, my thoughts race again. To the next item on the Five Things To Do Before I Say I Do list.
It’s about a road trip.
What if we could hit the next item on that list with the Evergreen Falls game? My fingers itch to text Remy but I do my best to give Coach all my attention.
He deserves it, and hockey deserves it too, since hockey saved my scarred and empty heart three years ago. I was a damn good player before then. But I hit a new level after Heather died. More goals, more points, more speed. The game gave me everything I needed in the aftermath of her death. It was an escape from the things the press said about me. The things the public thought they knew about me.
Things I’ve started sharing with Remy.
When Coach is done, I whirl around to my stall so fast, and I text her, asking to meet here at the arena soon. She doesn’t respond right away, but I shower fast anyway, feeling confident she will.
But as I button up my dress shirt ten minutes later, there’s still no note from her.
Hmm.
That’s not entirely like her. She’s responsible to a T. Maybe she’s busy.
Well, of course she is. She has a fucking life.
I toss my tie around my neck but don’t knot it as I pocket my phone and head out, determined to find her. Maybe she went home already, but we’ve got an animal rescue photo op tomorrow at a local shelter—or so I heard the other guys saying. I bet she’s still here, still working.
I should make sure she has a ride home.
I head to the stairwell, bound up the steps, and march down the corridor. It’s a little pushy to show up at her cubicle, but I’m a little pushy.
Only when I scan the marketing department, it’s empty, like I’d expect in the evening after a Sunday afternoon game.
No one’s here—not even a tall, leggy brunette working overtime.
My chest hollows out. A question rushes through my brain—is this too much? Is this that love-bombing shit guys do?
No one likes that.
Well, fuckhead, you’re standing at her desk, looking for her on a Sunday night. If the shoe fits…
I drag a hand roughly through my short hair—still getting used to it—and get the hell out of the marketing department.
I can’t be this guy. She wanted a fake boyfriend, not a real stalker.
Except as I retreat, heading down the corridor to the players’ lot, I ask myself—is it truly stalking to check in on a woman who went down on you unexpectedly in your closet? Is it obsession to ask her if she needs a ride home? I mean, it’d be ruder to leave without saying goodbye.
And if I know Remy, and I’m starting to, she’s probably planning a date for someone.
In seconds, I’m marching through the concourse, empty now. All the fans have gone home. Most of the vendors have shut their stalls. I circle around the arena, heading straight toward the plant wall.
And my Remy radar was right.
One tall, leggy woman sits in front of the ferns and evergreens in a chair made of reclaimed wood. Her brunette hair cascades over her shoulders in soft waves. Maroon headphones cover her ears. She nibbles on the end of a pen as she stares at a notebook in her lap.
Fuck, she’s beautiful and fierce, and she made me a cat tower. My heart thumps dangerously hard as I stride closer.
The echo of my wingtips on the concrete floor grows louder. The sound must penetrate her headphones, since she snaps her gaze up, flinching.