Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
We carefully make our way to the gate, lining up for the player announcements and entrances as the announcer starts down his roster. He begins with the visitors, calling out the Vortex players, and above us, on the jumbotron screen, the guys’ pictures and stats appear. As they pass us by, we clap politely, keeping smiles plastered on our faces, though there’s a fair amount of racket in here, as their fans have shown up in force.
Then it’s the Hawks’ turn, an entirely different experience. Our smiles are real, the claps proud, and the fans go nuts, chanting players’ names and banging on the glass in front of them.
“Dominic Lee!”
As my brother passes me, I chirp out, “No mercy, Dom!” He flashes me a cocky grin as he turns to skate onto the ice backward, mouthing no mercy here as he thumps his chest. He’s such an arrogant bastard, and though I can’t roll my eyes at his antics when I’m on the ice, he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Griffin Mahoney!”
I flip my attention back to the monster entering the rink. With there being a solid foot of difference between our heights, Griffin always towers over me, but when he comes toward me with an extra couple of inches from his skates and several inches wider from the shoulder pads, I feel tiny. But the quick side-eye he shoots my way has me feeling ten-feet tall and bulletproof because the fire in that look is new.
Not cold. Not annoyed. Not dismissive. Nope, I might not be a body language pro who can decipher men with pinpoint accuracy, but that look was . . . something I don’t have a name or label for. And while I’m considering buying one of the fancy thermal label makers to organize my work at home, I probably shouldn’t make a cute pink tag that says “Honey” on it because . . . it’s still Griffin.
And he hates me. Right?
Except that look wasn’t one of hate, right? Maybe a day with me has led him to succumb to my considerable charms. And I don’t mean my boobs, which are great but were covered in a T-shirt yesterday for our Tour de Pawn. I mean maybe, after years of trying and a few more years of saying, Fuck it, he’s finally decided to like me. Or at least, not hate me, which is nearly the same thing in my book.
Are we becoming friends?
The idea doesn’t seem as preposterous as it did a few short days ago.
“Good luck, Griffin!” I cheer, happy to have made some progress with the brute.
He flinches, and I swear I see his chest rise sharply like he sucked in a breath. It takes me a second to realize my mistake and correct myself. “I mean, good luck, Honey!”
I can’t help but grin at the progress we’ve made. Three measly days ago, he was glaring at me like he wished I hadn’t invaded the pregame dinner at Pro-Bowl. Now, we’re on a first-name basis, and I even used his nickname, which sounds dangerously close to an endearment. Maybe by the next time we see each other, he’ll actually call me Penny without it sounding like a curse word. It’s a new goal, I decide.
I don’t get to plot that out any further than deciding the colors of the friendship bracelet I’m going to make him—obviously Hawks black and gold—because it’s time for the players to warm up and for the cheerleaders to either get up to our stage area for game-time performances or to put on skates to join the crew that clears the ice during breaks. Cheerleaders rotate between the roles, taking turns either performing or doing shovel skates, and tonight I’m headed up to dance for the whole game.
“I hate you, you know that, right?” Layla whispers once we’re clear of the ice and the crowd and can be ourselves for a moment instead of our cheer-sonas.
I jerk my eyes her way. “What? We’re besties. Like this, you and me.” I cross my fingers and immediately drop my pom, of course kicking it straight into a security guard’s booted foot. Making a sound of suffering, I mutter an apology as I quickly bend down to grab it, never missing a step.
“You hang out with two of the hottest guys on the team all the time. Eating dinner with them, going to the gym with them, sitting on the couch to watch Bachelor Island with them.” Between the blissed-out smile, lovestruck eyes, and awestruck tone, she makes it sound like I’ve got a MFM throuple going down on the regular.
A laugh escapes hard and loud at her very wrong assumptions. “First of all, they don’t watch Bachelor Island. Second of all, one of those hot guys”—I pause to stick my tongue out and gag—“is my brother. And the other one is like a brother. That’s all kinds of ick.”