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)
“You’re a fuckboy after all,” I tease. “You should fit right in with the Blizzard.”
“Hell no,” he laughs, shaking his head. “But I understand that sometimes people have needs that aren’t being met, and as long as expectations are clearly communicated by all parties, there’s no harm in being what the other person needs you to be.”
That is a very fancy way of saying he’s had friends with benefits, but I don’t think we’re actually talking about his past relationships anymore. He’s offering to be whatever I want him to be and give me whatever I want. Whether that’s friendship or . . . more.
“I don’t . . .” The words I’ve said countless times before stall out in my throat.
“Date,” he finishes for me. “Especially hockey players. I know.” He winks, not taking my rejection personally.
Winking is ridiculous, completely comical as far as moves go, but on Dom, it looked sexy in a cute sorta way. Like he’s not taking things too seriously or pushing me into the deep end when I can barely tread water, much less swim.
Usually, I’m the type of woman who needs someone to literally say I’m flirting with you if they want me to catch on. Otherwise, I tend to think, Wow, they’re nice, or more often, What do they want? But I’m certain that Dominic is flirting with me. What’s more, I’m also pretty sure I’m enjoying it. And that is a shock.
“They’re the worst,” I agree, though I don’t mean it quite as vehemently as I once did.
I stare at him through the screen for a long moment, reevaluating everything I’ve ever thought about hockey and hockey players. Dominic doesn’t seem to fit any of those stereotypes. If anything, he’s the antithesis of the stupid, violent, fuckboy image. He’s smart and observant, kind and thoughtful, and respectful of my boundaries. Why hasn’t someone snatched him up already?
Why aren’t I taking him up on his offer to help me . . . any way I’d like him to?
“Why the hockey hatred?” he asks, seeing my thoughts and at the same time giving me a chance to make up my own mind. “Especially when you have a coach as your dad.”
That is a story. One I’m not sure I should share with one of Dad’s players. But I find myself confiding in Dominic anyway. It seems a safer option than addressing those potential benefits he might be offering.
“Because of my father,” I say succinctly.
Dominic winces. “Ouch. Pacholek said he’s on his fourth marriage. Was your mom number one?”
“Two, actually. He was freshly retired from his playing days, an assistant coach then, and Mom thought she’d met the man of her dreams.”
I close my eyes, remembering the pictures of Mom and Dad I saw as a child—of them happy, together, smiling with their arms wrapped around each other. But it was only for pictures. I also remember the tears, the fighting, and Mom pleading with Dad to come home, but there was always another game, another player to see, and later I realized, another woman to sleep with.
“They got divorced when I was seven. I’m not sure if Mom was tired of him cheating on her or tired of him being gone. After that, he’d come and go randomly. A few times, he picked me up for a couple of weeks during the summer, but when I was around fourteen, I realized that those occasional trips were to scout players, not to spend time with me. It was always hockey, hockey, hockey, to the detriment of everything else.” I give Dominic a pointed look, silently reminding both of us that he admitted to the same thing a mere few moments ago with his failed relationships.
“Still, I had friends with no dads, so his minor efforts to see me and the child support money he faithfully sent Mom were appreciated for a lot longer than they should’ve been. Long enough that it made the bare minimum seem exceptional. I accepted his scraps and learned to accept scraps in my other relationships for longer than I should’ve too.” I’m talking about Tyler and we both know it. “I refuse to do that now.”
“You looking for the full-blown princess treatment?” There’s no judgment in the question, but rather, it’s like he’s trying to figure me out.
I shake my head. “No. I want peace. And I have it, so I’m fine on my own.”
“Do you, though?” Dominic asks skeptically. “With Tyler pulling shit like what he did tonight? Is that peace?”
He’s right. Tonight has not been peaceful. It’s been challenging and scary and thought-provoking in new ways that I’m not sure I like.
“Tyler will usually say out of pocket stuff, but he’s never done anything like this dick-dialing stunt before,” I argue.
“What changed?”
I suspect he already knows the answer and is asking to see if I’ve figured it out. I most definitely have. “You. You being at the hospital with me and Harley. It was the first time he’s ever seen me with anyone else. I didn’t realize it, but I think me being alone was giving him some sort of twisted pleasure, like he still had that control over my life because I hadn’t moved on.”