Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I was hoping it wouldn’t take long for Jess to realize how hot she is for me. A day, maybe day and a half, seems to be the right amount of time for such an easy thing to figure out. But it’s been four days since I dropped her off, and she hasn’t called or texted.
I told her I’d sit tight, so that’s what I’m doing. I’d way rather be naked with her at the moment, but you can’t win every game in the third period, right? Sometimes it goes to overtime. Jess and I are in overtime right now, skating around each other until one of us scores. Except in this case, we both score, which…I guess ends in another tie and another OT period?
Fuck. My thoughts are getting away from me, and I don’t like it. I try not to think deep thoughts if I can help it.
The lake outside my apartment window looks a little purple in the sunset. The lights of Toronto shimmer above the waterline. It’s a Tuesday evening, there’s no game tonight, and I’m hanging around the ol’ apartment, considering my options. My place is awesome, but it’s a little too quiet at the moment.
There are probably a few of my teammates drinking down at Sticks & Stones, our favorite bar. I could head over there for a couple of beers. That’s always a good time. In fact…
I dig out my phone to check for messages. The guys usually let me know where they’re drinking on our nights off.
My shoulders tense when I see the screen. Someone has left me a message all right. But it’s not the name I was hoping to see. Not by a long shot.
Fuck.
Carrying the phone over to my brand-new chair, I sit down and lever my feet into the air. Then I use the clicker to dial up a whole-body massage and press Start. I lean back as the chair begins to do its thing, the rollers kneading my lower back and calves first.
Only when the relaxing powers of the world’s best chair have kicked in do I dare press Play on the voicemail message.
“Hi, Blake,” a soft, familiar voice says into my ear. “It’s Molly.”
Pity. There goes the possibility that she butt-dialed me by accident. I brace myself.
“I was hoping we could go out for coffee,” she says timidly.
“No can do!” I announce to nobody in particular.
“We need to catch up, okay? I convinced my firm to relocate me to Toronto for good.”
“Nooooo!” I yell.
“So we’re going to see each other from time to time. I’ll be at your sister’s shower next weekend. Let’s not be awkward, okay? I want to see you and hear what’s new. It would be good for us to be friends again.”
That’s it. That’s all I can take. I hit Delete on the voicemail and drop my phone on the rug.
The chair does its level best, rolling its tireless mechanical hands over my back and then down past my ass. But no massage chair in the world could overpower the bad news I just received.
I’m good at staying upbeat. The team psychologist loves me, because I can always put the last game behind me and focus on the next challenge coming down the road. But when there are toxic people in your life, it’s trickier.
I need some nontoxic people. Quick!
With a flick of my wrist, I shut off the chair and then bounce to my feet. It only takes me a couple of minutes to ride the elevator down a few floors and pound on Wesmie’s door.
There’s a muted grumble and a chuckle too. Sounds like I interrupted a make-out session on the couch. Oops.
“I’ll come back later,” I tell the door.
“’S okay,” Jamie’s voice says, coming closer. “We were going to order some dinner anyway.” The door opens, revealing a tousled-looking Jamie.
Wes is headed for the kitchen, where he pulls a third wineglass out of the cupboard and pours for me without even asking first.
Did I mention how much I love this man?
“What are you ordering?” I ask.
“How do you feel about Indian?” Jamie suggests.
“Indian food always makes Blake Riley smiley,” I answer. “I’ll buy.”
It’s usually my treat when we order in, because I eat Jamie’s cooking a few times a week. He told me he buys extra of everything because he knows I’ll probably turn up. “And when you don’t, I have leftovers for lunch,” he’d explained.
Wes hands me a glass of wine. “You want your usual?” he asks, pulling out his phone.
“Yeah, and let’s get the samosas too. I’m starved.” Bad news makes me hungry.
I sit down in their massage chair, which is identical to my massage chair. This leaves the whole couch for Wesmie. They sit at opposite ends, but Wes puts his feet in Jamie’s lap.
Jamie’s eyes are on the TV screen, where some sports highlights are playing. But his hands unconsciously attach themselves to Wes’s left foot, and he begins to stroke the arch with his thumbs. Watching, I can almost feel how awesome that must be, the pressure just right against muscles tired from today’s brutal morning practice. I could use a massage. Maybe I’ll book one tomorrow with the team therapist.