Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
But that was before he’d sold out my best friend.
I knew Langley and some of our other teammates thought I was being unreasonable and that Walker had atoned for his mistake, but he was done-zo in my book.
I gave a curt nod and spun away.
Langley followed, flinging a quick, “Later, dude” over his shoulder.
“Hang on! Ty, may I have a word, please?” Walker called.
I wasn’t going to reply. I didn’t owe him an explanation, and I was pretty damn sure he knew the score anyway.
But Langley grabbed my elbow and leaned into my space. “Be nice, Ty. New school year, blank slate, and all that.”
“Bullshit,” I coughed under my breath.
“C’mon, Jett forgave him. You can afford to be magnimonious too.”
“Magnanimous,” I corrected.
Langley rolled his eyes. “Whatever the fuck. The point is…you’re going to the AH-fuckin’-L. No reason to be bitter, right? At least hear him out.”
With that, Langley strode away, leaving me to deal with the annoyingly cheery Walker Woodrow.
I was a good six inches taller and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds of muscle. My height, brawny size, and less-than-sunny demeanor should have been intimidating, but Walker was apparently immune.
“Congratulations are in order,” he gushed. “AHL…wow! And to Jacksonville, no less.”
“You’re a hockey fan?” I heard myself ask out of the blue.
“Honestly, I think everyone at Smithton is—or they will be, knowing they’ll be able to root for one of our own in the pros.”
That wasn’t really an answer, but his smile was more brilliant than the last. It made him incandescent, as if he had some kind of inner glow.
I had to admit, Walker had a good TV face. He wasn’t classically handsome, but that spark in him transmitted nicely on-screen. It made him interesting, and it made it seem as if he were interested in you. An excellent quality for a talk show host. Or a con artist.
“Thanks,” I replied tersely. “I have to get going.”
“I’ll walk with you.” He fell into step beside me, uninvited. “I know you’re probably busy getting ready for classes. I just finalized my schedule and bought a few online textbooks. OMG, highway robbery. Am I right? I can’t believe how much collegiate e-books cost.”
His melodic laughter rang between the buildings like birdsong.
Do not cave. He might look pretty, but the man is rotten to the core.
I stopped in my tracks. “Is there something you wanted?”
“Actually…yes.” Walker bit into his bottom lip and gave a sheepish look. “I’d love to interview you for What’s New, Smithton? Our audience will go nuts for a chance to hear all about the draft, how it’s changed your life so far, what you imagine life will be like in Florida next year, and…what it’s like being an out bisexual athlete on the rise. The interview itself is generally thirty minutes long. Super low-key. We could meet at the rink or at my—”
“No.”
He recoiled as if I’d punched him in the gut. “I…uh, I can work around your schedule, of course, and—”
“No,” I repeated.
“Um…is there a problem?” Walker asked carefully.
“No problem with me. I just don’t want anything to do with you. And I’m not going to change my mind.” I stepped away from him, relishing his pointedly shocked expression. “Tell your followers that’s what’s new in Smithton.”
Okay, not my best line, but it did the trick. Walker blinked like an owl, stunned into silence. Good.
I quelled the strong desire to flip him off, settling for the nasty sneer I usually reserved for riling opponents on the ice. Curled lips, ugly stare with dead eyes…not pretty at all. He flinched, which kinda made me feel bad. But fuck that. My anger was totally justified, and it pissed me off that he dared to pull the innocent act.
Did he really think I’d forget what he’d done? Not fucking likely.
Maybe he didn’t owe me an apology, but I certainly didn’t owe him my time.
I hoped he’d gotten the message loud and clear ’cause this—right here, right now—was the last interaction I’d ever have with Walker fucking Woodrow.
CHAPTER 2
WALKER
Rude.
Rude.
Rude.
I didn’t like Ty Czerniak. I didn’t like big, burly hockey players. I didn’t like hockey.
Just… Ugh!
Unfortunately, I wasn’t a football fan either.
I wrinkled my nose at the supersized shirtless linebacker guzzling a gallon of water, unbothered that a third of the contents dribbled down his chin and along his thick and heaving chest. I’d like to claim it was sexy, but Arlo was a ding-dong with an inflated ego and a small willy he “accidentally” showed off whenever his towel slipped. Yawn.
Robin clicked dozens of action photos while I waited for my subject to hydrate and hopefully share a few words of wisdom about the football team’s first win of the season.
This was hell. If anyone had told my younger self I’d finagle my way into a job that included a press pass to locker rooms filled with sweaty muscular men, I’d never have believed it. Not my cup of tea. First of all, sweat…ew. And second, locker rooms were generally affiliated with sporty endeavors which required extra peppy energy on my part. I didn’t hate all sports, per se, but toxic masculinity was a double ew. Case in point, Arlo.