Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“The doctor wants to put his X-ray up on the wall of his office!” Weber hoots. “Dude said he never saw anything like it.”
“Oh.” I take the deepest breath I’ve had in a long time. “Okay, wow.”
Darcy emerges from the clot of hockey players to tug me toward the bar. “Step aside! This woman deserves a margarita.”
“She sure does,” Tremaine agrees, following us. “Coach Zoe, can you straighten out O’Connell’s taste in music next? He thinks Nickelback is a good band.”
The players roar.
“It is, you snob!” O’Connell yells from somewhere nearby.
The captain shakes his head. Then he taps the bar. “Could I please have two more of the imperial stout—plus whatever these two ladies feel like drinking?” He gestures at me and Darcy. “Thanks, man.”
“That’s nice of you,” I say.
“Only the best for Coach Zoe! I think you just saved the day.” He gives my arm a quick squeeze. “And Darcy does that every other day.”
I turn toward Darcy, who’s blushing and biting her lip. Interesting. I wait until Tremaine walks away before I poke her in the knee. “You have a thing for the captain?”
“No!” she yelps, her expression scandalized. “Be real. How about a margarita? Fair warning—they make them with blood orange juice. But it’s still our thing.”
“Sounds amazing,” I say as the bartender sets a coaster in front of each of us. “And could I possibly see a menu?”
“Two blood orange margaritas, coming up,” he says. “Is your name Zoe, by chance?”
I blink. It’s so odd that all the bartenders of North America seem to know my name. “Yes?”
“Oh good,” he says. “Because the kitchen just closed, but someone put in an order for you just at the last second.”
“For me?”
“One moment,” he says. “I’ll bet it’s ready.” He strides away.
“Darcy? Did you…?”
She shakes her head.
I roll my shoulders. “I just finished eight hours in a hockey arena watching sweaty nineteen-year-olds try to kill each other.”
“It’s too bad all-night nail salons aren’t a thing,” Darcy says. “But I found us a spot for tomorrow! And I got us eighth-row seats for the game.”
“The game,” I breathe. “I get an actual seat?” To watch Chase play? There have been moments over the last decade when I was sorely tempted to buy a ticket off StubHub and see him play. Not that I ever went through with it.
“Of course you do,” she says, draining her drink and setting aside the empty glass. “Oh—and O’Connell turned over his video clips to Steve Sailor, who’s having them professionally edited.”
I groan. “And to think I once believed professional hockey was a serious business.”
“Oh, it is, if you mean seriously weird. The PR department is going to milk that video. They’ll publish O’Connell’s thing, and then they’ll probably recut it with your old video. Like, Who wore it best?”
“Oh God.”
She elbows me. “The airport video is fun. And it’s nice to see the team rallying around Chase.”
“They are?”
“Of course they are. Zoe, they made a prank video of themselves dancing like goobers. That takes balls. What they didn’t do was post all over social media about their teammate shoving a fan in a bar. You get me? It’s pack behavior.”
“Oh,” I say slowly. “I never thought about it that way. I’ve never been part of a team.”
“Until now, you mean?”
I shake my head. “Not even now. I’m dispensable. Sharp practically told me to my face.”
“Then make yourself indispensable.” She shrugs, like that’s easy. “You’re the most cynical person I know, Zoe. It’s kind of impressive.”
“If you don’t expect much from anyone, they can’t let you down.”
She laughs as if I’m joking. But I’m not.
The bartender reappears, sliding a generous platter onto the bar in front of me. “Here we go. The special grilled flatbread pizza, no mushrooms, and a Caesar salad, for Zoe.”
“Um…”
“And here’s your drink.” He slides it onto the bar and then darts away.
I stare down at the plate. Pizza, no mushrooms. Wow. Is it weird to look at a pizza and feel weepy? Because I suddenly do.
“Who ordered that?” Darcy asks.
I glance past her. “Did you happen to see Chase in here tonight?”
“Sure,” she says easily. “When you called, he was just…” She cranes her neck around. “Hmm.”
“Hmm,” I echo. Then I pick up one quarter of the elegant little thin-crust pizza and take a bite. “Once upon a time, pizza was our love language. Maybe he ordered this as a thank-you.”
“Maybe,” she says. Her gaze lifts, and she opens her mouth to add something. But I’m on a roll.
“And maybe this pizza is a gesture that says I’m not mad at you for triggering a bully in that bar and making me look like a goon. Because that could have happened to anyone, although why does all the stupid shit happen to you when I’m around?”
“Well,” Darcy says, “you can—”