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)
“I won’t,” I say, crossing my arms.
He leaves in a huff.
So much for his protein powder obsession being his most annoying trait.
He is his most annoying trait.
Later that night, I’m equal parts enraged and hurt when out with my friend Jules at Gin Joint, drowning my break-up sorrows while also toasting good riddance to my ex.
“Let’s drink to the next guy being hotter, richer, smarter, nicer, and better in bed,” Jules says, lifting her champagne.
I clink my flute to hers. “To upgrades.”
“To upgrades.”
I swallow some of the bubbly, and when Jules sets her glass down, her phone buzzes. She grabs it, then clicks on what looks like a text. She takes a few seconds to read it, her face turning white. “Camden,” she says in a heavy tone that tells me I’m not going to like what she’s looking at.
“Yes?” I ask, warily.
When she raises her face, she says, “Ethan just sent this to me.”
He’s a good friend of ours who always knows things first.
Worry crawls up my spine as Jules spins her phone around and taps a video of…my stomach plummets. It’s Erik’s lifestyle interview. He must have done it a little after he left my place. I can’t hear it above the music in the lounge, but I don’t need to. I can read the captions.
“And how are things going with Camden?” the perky interviewer asks, using only my first name, since that’s what I go by professionally. She flashes her bright smile, her blonde bob shining under the stage lights. “You and the rising pop star have been a thing for a couple months now. Will we see you at the opening of Goddess next month?”
“Nah. That little music club that caters to women musicians? Please. Like anyone wants that. She’ll regret having opened it.”
At first, I’m angry. Then later, as I’m walking home, I pass Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium. A memory flashes before me. I go there most mornings. I went there most mornings in the spring, too, and there was a guy there who looked familiar at the time. He had magazine model good looks—the kind of cheekbones that were carved, the kind of jawline that was chiseled, the kind of scruff that made you think dirty thoughts.
The type of body that made it clear he probably played pro sports.
And the most interesting brown eyes I’d ever seen. Warm, kind, and soulful.
Some days, he’d look my way as he waited for his order—always an English Breakfast.
But nothing happened, and when spring rolled into summer, he was gone. Didn’t matter much anyway since I’d just met Erik and we’d started dating then.
As I flash back on the coffee shop guy, though, the memory fills all the way in. I’m pretty sure I know why he felt familiar—I’m pretty sure the coffee shop guy is a hockey player too.
But on the city’s other team. The team that won the Cup last season. The New York Ice Kings.
The guy Erik’s obsessed with.
A wicked smile forms on my lips.
I know how to exact my revenge. When the season starts, I’ll get Erik Karlsson’s biggest rival to ask me out on a date.
2
YOUR ENGLISH FRIEND
SHAW
One month later
If I’m lucky, the redhead will be a creature of habit. And I’ve been very, very lucky in my life.
Well, not just lucky. I’m pretty fucking good too. And disciplined. You don’t win a Cup without either luck or discipline.
Maybe today, as I stride down Christopher Street, beelining for the coffee shop I’ve been going to every day before morning skate so far this pre-season, both luck and discipline will pay off.
And yes. Fucking yes. There she is, bang on time. A thrill races through me since the redhead is here. I thought about chatting her up in the spring last season, but I was so damn focused on the game, the strategy, the chance to win it all that I didn’t want to risk being distracted.
Problem is I regretted that.
That regret ends today.
I’ve been running into her every morning for the last week, just like I did last season. I haven’t found the right time to speak to her yet, but now’s my chance—I just know it.
I finger the soft envelope in my back pocket, reviewing my strategy as she orders her coffee at the counter. Her fiery red hair falls down her back in a wild tumble. She wears black pants, painted on. Her top is silver, sleeveless, and shows off the creamy skin of her arms, the right one covered in ink of flowers, vines, and words. A leather jacket dangles from her fingers.
I push up the sleeves of my Henley, since it’s warm for early October, then check my fitness watch. Plenty of time to make it to the arena of the best team in the city. Our cross-town rivals—the New York Red Hawks—would say otherwise. They’ve been talking shit about us during the pre-season. Ironic, since they didn’t even make it out of round one of the playoffs last season. But that hasn’t stopped the team’s reigning arsehole, Erik Karlsson, from his nonstop trash talk. He’s despised me since I went ahead of him in the first round of the draft years ago—the Brit who has better stats than him.