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)
He’s too busy sneaking glances at Zoe to listen. Up close, he’s noticing something else about her—that she’s fucking gorgeous. Olive skin and thick dark hair that’s been raked into a heavy braid.
When she sheds her sweatshirt to reveal a form-fitting exercise top, smooth olive shoulders, and strong biceps, he forgets to breathe. And he almost fails to notice her red lanyard, the same kind as his.
Not a camper, then. An unfamiliar sensation warms his chest. Like hope, but fizzier.
Unfortunately, that’s when she catches him staring. She turns suddenly, flicking a frown in his direction. But then she does a double take. As if one look wasn’t quite enough. Their gazes meet this time, and Chase forgets to breathe while they take each other in.
She looks away first. “Who are you?” she hisses.
He grins. “Chase. Counselor in the boys’ entryway. And the forklift for the pairs classes.” He pantomimes lifting something in the air and then lowering it again, twice in succession.
She doesn’t smile, but amusement passes through her big brown eyes, and the corners of her mouth twitch.
It feels like winning the lottery. “How long does this meeting last, you think? I’m about two thousand calories and two cups of coffee behind. And she seems like a talker. And a hard-ass.” He nods toward Coach Pat.
Zoe glances toward the front, where Coach Pat is still listing details, and the joy seems to leak right out of her.
“She’s the worst,” she whispers. “Eight weeks of this, too. I’ll lose my mind.”
“But that’s what tequila is for,” he says. “Did you notice if the dorm had a rooftop?”
She frowns at him as if he’d asked a question in Swahili. “No?”
“Then I guess it’s up to me to check, isn’t it?”
Her eyes widen. Then she gives him the barest hint of a smile before turning away.
He’ll take it.
Chapter 3
Present Day
I’m frozen in place, two paces inside the players’ lounge, with Chase glaring at me through the crowd. His eyes are still very blue, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen them look cold before.
Then he finally returns his gaze to his teammate, and the spell is broken.
I remember to draw a breath. And in my peripheral vision, I notice Darcy waving frantically at me through the glass.
Hell. I’m so confused right now. Why is he still so mad? It’s been almost ten years without a word from him. I thought he’d forgotten me completely.
I’m the one who should be mad.
On shaky knees I force myself to maneuver around a clot of hockey players and approach him. “Excuse me, Chase?” My voice comes out thin and nervous.
He goes absolutely still.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say, clearing my throat. “But you’re wanted in the GM’s office. Darcy asked me to tell you.”
For a split second, I think he might ignore me completely. But then he turns, his blue eyes so frigid they almost look like someone else’s. A chill climbs up my spine, as if I’m watching a horror movie where aliens have replaced the Chase I once knew with a moody robot. “Really?” he asks abruptly. “That’s what you came here to say to me?”
“I… well…” I gulp. “Sorry.”
“Dude,” says Eric Tremaine, the team captain. He puts a hand on Chase’s shoulder. “Are you seriously giving our new coach a hard time? What is wrong with you lately?”
Chase clenches his jaw, and he jerks out of Tremaine’s grasp. He lifts his gaze toward the office, where Darcy is frantically beckoning to him. Then he gives me one more withering glance.
“Sorry,” I stammer again. And I don’t know what I’m apologizing for, exactly. For the intrusion. For the trouble I once caused him. For my very existence.
He turns away, though, without any reaction. He slips through the crowded room toward the GM’s office, and my gaze instinctively follows him.
“Hey, Coach Carson. My apologies,” the captain says. “I’m Eric Tremaine.”
I turn, gathering myself to shake his hand. I can’t afford to make a poor impression on the team captain. “Nice to meet you.”
Tremaine is a big, broad guy with a jaw so square that it could be used to teach geometry. It’s softened, though, by a sweep of ash-blond hair across his forehead, and kind gray eyes. If he weren’t towering over me in top-of-the-line athletic wear, I think I could picture him standing in a dairy barn in Iowa or maybe Ontario. “Sorry about that,” he says. “Merry isn’t usually such an asshole. I’ll speak to him.”
“Forget it,” I insist. “But I’ve been wanting to introduce myself to you. I look forward to our first training session later this week.”
“Can’t wait,” he says cheerfully. “Anything I can do to help?”
Tremaine has the kind of golden retriever energy that makes a good team captain. And maybe I can use his help. “You know what would be fun?” I say casually. “Why don’t you bring a couple of other senior players with you? It would help get me up to speed faster before I start my one-on-one sessions.”