Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
“They know?” My eyes grow wide. “What exactly did you tell them?”
“Didn’t have to tell them a damn thing, sunshine.” He chuckles, a smile tugging at his lips, and I’m given that damn smirk of his again. “They saw the way I looked at you during PT, and they saw you last night. Harrison already called me a goner before we landed in Washington, and he’s not wrong.”
Before I can formulate any sort of a comeback, Rowdy pushes open the heavy wood and glass door of the restaurant. The neon beer signs, the deep hum of chatter, and the rich smell of fried food and grilled burgers hit my senses. My stomach lets out a loud, embarrassing rumble, making Rowdy chuckle.
“Hungry, sunshine?”
“I’m currently starving, and it’s entirely your fault,” I whisper back, nudging his body with my hip.
“I can’t have that. You’re going to need sustenance for later.” He dips down to murmur into my hair, which causes a shiver to skate down my spine.
“Rowdy! Over here, man!” A loud shout comes from the giant corner booth near the back of the bar. A group of massive athletes is piled around a wooden table covered in pint glasses and baskets of food. Rowdy leads me over, his hand firmly clasping mine, completely unbothered by the sudden silence that falls over the booths, chairs, and high tops as we approach his teammates.
“Guys, this is Jett,” Rowdy announces. His voice is laced with a thick, undeniable satisfaction as he keeps me anchored to his side. “Jett, meet the line.” He points around the table, introducing them to me one by one. First is Harrison, the center, who immediately grins from ear to ear. Next is Liam Fletcher, the steady-as-ever left defenseman, who gives me a polite head nod. Beside him sits Pheonix Michaud, the right defenseman, leaning back with an amused expression. And finally, Chance Scott, the defender, who has a smile on his face and looks like he’s about to say something.
“So, this is the famous Jett,” Harrison says, sliding over on the leather bench to make room for us.
“The woman behind the miracle,” Liam adds.
“Nice to meet you all.” I let Rowdy guide me into the booth beside him. He slides his arm over the back of the seat behind my shoulders, his large hand resting casually around my neck, keeping me close.
“Thank god someone finally got Rowdy to settle down.” Chance takes a sip of his draft beer with a slow shake of his head. “Jett, you deserve a medal. The guy was living up to his namesake too damn much before you showed up.”
“No kidding,” Pheonix chimes in, leaning his elbows on the table. “Two weeks ago, he was scowling at everyone in the locker room. Now he’s smiling at cameras, dropping guys on the ice, and laughing it off like an infomercial host. It’s downright creepy, Bouch.”
“Shut it, Michaud,” Rowdy grunts, though the smirk on his face betrays him entirely. “I’m a changed man.”
“Yeah, right.” Liam laughs, tossing a wing bone in the basket. “Changed until someone looks at you the wrong way in the crease. Seriously, Jett, the social media clips look badass. You’ve got a whole fanbase swooning over him.” I lean back against Rowdy’s side, feeling his chest rumble with laughter, along with his warmth as it seeps into me through my leather jacket.
“Well, I’m glad you guys like my strategy.” I decide to play it cool, using a dry, playful tone. “Because I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be working with him. I could very well be fired by tomorrow if the managers decide this isn’t a good image. You know, professionalism and all.”
“Not happening,” a sharp, familiar voice booms from behind our booth. I turn my head to see Mitch striding toward us, holding a glass of bourbon. The Lodestars’ coach looks far more relaxed than usual in jeans and a shirt, a genuine smile on his face as he looks down at Rowdy and me sitting glued together at the hip.
“Mitch,” I say, blinking in surprise.
“Thought you were in meetings tonight,” Rowdy states.
“Just finished.” Mitch waves a hand dismissively. “And to answer your statement, Jett, nobody is firing you. You’re the best thing that’s happened to Rowdy in four seasons.”
“Hear, hear!” Rowdy raises his pint glass toward Mitch in a toast.
“Genuinely,” Mitch continues, leaning against the edge of the booth. “The engagement from last night’s penalty box clip is off the charts. The higher-ups are ecstatic. The fans love the energy. You took a guy who looked like a ticking time bomb and turned him into the league’s favorite reformed bad boy.”
“I told you, sunshine.” Rowdy dips his head, his mouth at my ear. His breath whispers against the shell while his fingers give my shoulder a possessive squeeze beneath my jacket. “You’re irreplaceable.”