Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58792 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 294(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58792 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 294(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
“I hustled my ass off to become a starter this year,” Bex says. “I wasn’t about to punk out, allow her to make the easy layup, and show Coach Vaughn I wasn’t starting material.”
Bex is always so serious. God forbid anyone on our team who gets a leg up on her. For someone who has no plans to attempt a pro career, she takes winning way too seriously. We both love the game, but it’s just a game.
“It was just a scrimmage,” I tell her. “You can ease up. What if Preston tries to kiss you on Saturday, and he tastes blood? That’s not sexy.”
She shrugs, unaffected. “He’s a hockey player. I’m sure he’s used to the taste of blood in his mouth. And it’s not like I will kiss him.”
We stop in front of the outer edge of the ice, and our conversation comes to a halt. Once I get a load of the men on the ice before me, my eyes are as wide as my mouth that has fallen open. Bex looks equally taken back by the players. They’re so graceful on skates that they make basketball players look like idiots falling over their feet.
Her eyes travel to Preston, who skates past us. He didn’t seem to notice either of us, and that’s probably for the best, considering the look on Bex’s face. She’s watched the team play dozens of times, but that was before she stumbled into a very shirtless Preston Parker in the locker room. Now, her perspective on the game and Preston is different. I can see it written all over her face.
From what I can tell, they’re having a scrimmage. One team wears navy jerseys, the other red. A quick squabble ensues where two players fight for possession of the puck. Drake Donovan is the goalie. I probably know every detail of his dick better than him. Most of the girls on campus have seen it at least once. And now, I can’t stop thinking about him or his junk as I watch him defend the net.
He moves so fast, dressed in all that padding and gear. A wall of a man, Drake hulks over every player on the ice. He must be close to seven feet tall, muscles bulging from every place imaginable. Even under his uniform, I can see how well he fills out every speck of fabric attached to his toned body.
From the first time I saw him on campus, my mouth was salivating, begging for a taste. Until I found out he’s a total manwhore. He’s so ridiculously good-looking, with short, dark hair that brushes his forehead, blue eyes that pop against his tanned skin, and tattoos that cover his forearms like artwork carefully designed for his perfect body. I try not to glance in his direction, but he makes it hard not to sneak a peek.
A blur of colored jerseys skates past us before someone takes a shot on the goal that hits the post and bounces to the left of the net. Drake attempts to capture it with his stick, but a red jersey player is faster.
I’m still staring at Drake when Bex presses her hand to the Plexiglas, stumbling over her sneakers.
“We better get out of here before we slobber on ourselves and trip in a puddle of our drool.
She makes a beeline for her dad, who’s talking to a player in the box. As we pass, a few of the players glance in our direction. One waves to us, though I can’t see his face. Bex returns his gesture. I stand there, stunned, like some idiot drunk on hot men.
Coach Bryant pushes open the door that leads to the ice, and Bex hands him the wallet.
Smiling, he takes it from her. “Thanks, honey. You’re a real lifesaver.” His gaze falls from Bex to me. “Hey, I haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been, Taylor?”
I roll my shoulders. “I’ve been around. Busy with school and basketball.”
“Still working on your jump shot?”
I bob my head. “Yep. I got it down pat now.”
He winks at me and then turns to Bex, his gaze intense as he sees her busted lip. “How was practice? You have a nice shiner forming on your cheek and lip. What happened? You look like you went a few rounds with Hopkins.”
I love his reference to Bernard Hopkins, a legendary boxer from Philly. My dad was on the All-Marine Boxing Team back in his day, so I don’t fight like a girl.
Bex laughs at his joke. “Practice was fine. It could have been better. But at least I’ll have a cool battle scar.”
He inspects her face, shaking his head. “I wish you’d be more careful. You can be so rough.”
“Basketball is a rough sport,” she counters. “I’m not some delicate flower, Dad. I can take a punch, or in this case, an elbow.”