Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Xoxo
Lauren
ABOUT THE BOOK
They say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.
I say the best way is to get under his rival.
Enter Shaw: smooth, sexy, British—and my ex’s biggest enemy on the ice. What was supposed to be a one-time revenge fling turns complicated when he invites me to his game… and catches me in my lie.
Turns out, nothing turns him on more than payback.
And now I’ve got a hockey player who won’t stop chasing me.
A LOVE AND HOCKEY SHORT STORY
By Lauren Blakely
1
NO BIG DEAL
CAMDEN
Everybody has an annoying trait.
Or three.
And you just have to remind yourself…it’s no big deal.
For my boyfriend, the question he’s asking just happens to be one of those three.
“Hey, babe, where’s my protein powder?”
I look up from the sage-green couch in the living room of my West Village rooftop apartment, where I’m reviewing the final details for the kickoff of my music club next month, and meet Erik’s concerned gaze. He’s a few feet away in the kitchen, his brow a furrowed line digging into his thick forehead as his gaze darts from the blender on my sleek white countertop, then to the cupboard, then to the blender again.
It’s just one of those things—him never remembering where he left his protein powder.
“The cupboard. Above the stove. Where you left it yesterday,” I say helpfully, since there’s no point getting pissy about it.
He shakes his head. “That’s not my whey protein though. I need the whey for muscle recovery. I just worked out,” he says, flipping open another cupboard as he hunts.
“You left more than one type of protein here?” I don’t ask how many types of protein one needs because I can’t bear another conversation about the differences between egg protein and whey protein and who-even-cares protein.
Erik Karlsson is good at a lot of things—being a sweetie-pie and having great stamina—but wowing me with the fine details of his post-workout regimen is not one of them.
“Yes. I leave all my protein here because one, you’re my girl, and two, I come here after the gym. The season starts in a month. We have a shot at the Cup finally, but you can’t be a top defenseman in the NHL without working out hard,” he says, like it’s a gift he marks my place with his tools for getting ripped.
I suppose it’s sweet, in a very Erik Karlsson way.
He yanks open another cupboard when I spot a huge white container on the other side of the stove.
“There it is,” I say, my bracelets sliding down my ink-covered arm as I point to the in-your-face treasure he seeks.
“Damn, babe. Look at you,” he says with a big smile, then stalks over to me, cups my face and declares, “You’re the best.”
“Thanks,” I say to my teddy bear of a boyfriend, then adjust my black strappy tank top.
Erik returns to his protein mission, measuring and dumping powder and spirulina and spinach and other get-bigger-faster this and that into my blender, which I’ll need to fumigate later because…gross. But I can manage that annoying thing too.
It’s not a big deal, like the other things aren’t a big deal.
When he’s finally done, he points finger guns at the appliance. “Kapow,” he says. To no one. Or maybe himself.
Okay, fine, that’s another annoying thing. Actually—make that two, if we’re counting both the finger guns and the talking to himself.
Like he’s doing right now as he mutters, “Gotta have better stats than Coleman this season.”
Right, right. That’s his rival. The guy on the other New York team that he’s obsessed with. He can’t stand the fact that some other player makes more money, was picked ahead of him in the draft, and has more points.
But I’m doing my best to ignore both the finger guns and the muttering as I email the general manager for Goddess, the new club that I funded with the proceeds from my platinum album, letting her know the plans for the launch are not only approved but that they’re goddess-level beautiful.
When I close my laptop, Erik’s lounging against the counter, downing some of his shake—a white, milkshake-y line above his lip. His phone buzzes on the coffee table, and he lowers the tumbler. “Oh! Can you grab that? My agent’s booking an interview for me on a lifestyle show,” he says, lips curving in a satisfied grin. “You don’t see Coleman getting those opps, do you?”
I smile placatingly. “No idea.”
“You don’t, babe. Because your boyfriend is the hottest fucking commodity. Especially since sports talk gurus are saying the New York Red Hawks are going to go all the way this season.”
Okay, that’s a little annoying too. The way he’s his own hype man. But I ignore that as well, grabbing his phone as I pop up from the couch, then I startle. Blink. Stare.