Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Not even yours?” I challenge.
The attempt to lighten the mood falls flat, with Dominic’s face staying stony. “Especially mine,” he agrees.
“You don’t even know me.”
He nods slightly. “Fair. But I don’t like anyone being subjected to that. Especially a woman, and especially you, when you seem to be sweet and kind, and just want the best for your boy.”
I drop my chin, staring unseeingly at my half-empty drink. That sounds . . . nice? Like Dominic isn’t playing some game or scheming to get into my jeans or into Dad’s good graces by being nice to his daughter, though little does he know that would have the opposite effect. Still, I don’t know what to do with his generosity. I’m too used to fighting my own way, making my own magic out of nothing, and figuring things out for myself.
Like he can sense my struggle, Dominic doesn’t pressure me, saying, “Just let me know if I can help with anything—hockey, exes, or I don’t know, light bulbs that need to be changed or whatever. So far, you’re the only friend I’ve made here, which means my schedule’s wide open.”
I lift my eyes to meet his. “Thank you.”
“Whether I hear from you or not, it was really good to meet you, Briar. You made tonight a billion times better than I thought it’d be.” He smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “To be fair, my expectations were in the gutter. Maybe lower.”
“It was good to meet you, too, Dominic,” I concede. “Piña coladas, loaded fries, and a conversation including actual words with more than one syllable? Winner-winner, chicken dinner, in my book. Not sure what that says about my expectations.”
As he walks away, I watch him . . . His shoulders wide and sturdy looking, tapering to his waist, his long legs eating up the wood floor on his way to the door. He doesn’t spare a single glance toward the team he’s supposed to be a part of, and when he disappears through the door, I look over at them. Too busy raucously playing pool and darts, not a one of them notices their new top defenseman leaving either. They really are awful.
I look down at my phone, seeing Dominic’s info still on the screen. Before I can second-guess myself, I type out a message and hit send.
Thank you.
That’s it, just two little words, but it means that he has my number now too. Wait . . .
This is Briar.
Okay, three more words and now he has my number and knows who it belongs to.
I wonder if he realizes that this was the first date I’ve had in over ten years. Because despite my argument, that was as close as I’ve gotten, and it wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.
Chapter 3
Dominic
Preseason camp is important . . . for newbies and rookies. I’m neither, yet Coach Boothe made it clear that I was expected to attend in the email he sent the day after our bar get-together. It’s basically Blizzard onboarding, meeting their behind-the-scenes crew, getting checked out by the team doctor, and then doing drills until exhaustion.
Which I hit twenty minutes ago. Not physically, because I stay ready so I don’t have to get ready, but mentally. This is bordering on torture, with Coach red-faced yelling at us after each round, saying the last attempt wasn’t good enough and we have to do better if we’re hoping for any time on the ice. I’ve played for coaches with a variety of leadership styles over the years, and Boothe is my least favorite—death by a thousand cuts that are supposed to make you stronger. Newsflash: It rarely works, and it definitely doesn’t nurture the camaraderie and support that create a team.
“Again.” Coach’s order echoes through the arena and we dutifully line up.
“Can’t believe I’m playing with the Dominic Lee,” the guy next to me says. He’s in position, his skates in perpetual motion, his stick tapping on the ice in preparation for the signal.
“I’m just a player, same as you.” That’s not remotely true. Rodney—I think that’s what he said his last name is—was drafted to the Blizzard as a late-round pick, and he looks like he turned eighteen yesterday. I drop my eyes to his stick. “Relax your lower hand. It’s not your dick.”
He laughs, but does as I advised. He’s coachable, I think.
A loud whistle sounds out and we take off, skating across the ice like our lives depend on it, our sticks slapping our pucks with each stride. Rodney gets to the farthest goal line a split second faster than I do. “Holy shit, I beat you,” he pants, his hands on his knees and cheeks flushed red.
I chuckle at his wide-eyed excitement. “None of us are going full out for drills. Especially this late in the day.” He deflates, his pride evaporating at the hard truth. “But you’re fast as hell, so keep at it.”