Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“Should we nap or marathon the show some more?”
My heart does the strangest little thing at the sincerity of the question, and I tell it to be cautious. Lawson and I may be compatible in the bedroom, and we may even be inching toward being really good friends, but the last thing either one of us wants is to get attached.
But despite repeating this silently, I find myself smiling at him, helpless against his charm. “I'm up for another marathon,” I say. He nods, hopping over to the opposite side of the bed and snuggling under the covers next to me.
He grabs the remote and turns on my TV as if it's the most natural thing in the world for us to do. And I find myself wondering how the hell I settled for something so little, when Lawson isn’t even officially attached to me and is already giving me more than I could ever ask for.
CHAPTER 11
LAWSON
The roar of the crowd is music to my ears.
We’re away, but can tell that there are enough die-hard Bangor fans cheering for us every time we get the puck.
We’re pitted against the—I'm sad to say—very talented LA Kings, and for the last two periods they’ve definitely let us know we’re playing in their house.
We're currently tied up, but I feel like I've already won. I'm faster, with more explosive power thanks to the grueling practices and private lessons with Blakely.
Blakely, who I know is out there cheering for me somewhere, not just as a colleague but as a friend.
A friend who occasionally sleeps with me.
“Wolfe!” Kiplin screams as I get hold of the puck. “Get your fucking head in the game!”
“I have the puck!” I holler back, weaving around the Kings’ winger that’s chasing me down.
“Pass it,” my captain demands. “You're too covered!”
I ignore him—something I know I'll pay for later. I'm sure scoring the game-winning goal will soften his anger. I'm on cloud fucking nine, and there's no way any of these losers are going to catch me.
I glide over the ice like lightning, the weight of the puck against my stick like an extension of my own body as I make my way toward the goal. Sure, I've got wingers and defensemen coming at me left and right, but I dodge them, taking my shot. I skid to a stop after smacking the puck toward the goal, already celebrating the victory dance in my mind, when the crowd erupts, an explosion of cheers as the Kings’ goaltender bats away my shot like it's nothing.
For a split second, I gape in utter shock knowing the massive heat I put on that shot, and hoping his glove hand hurts like hell from making that save.
It's just a second, and then I'm back in action, speeding over the ice in a desperate attempt to remedy the mistake I just made. Not only did I ignore my captain, but I missed the fucking shot.
Stokehill is already three steps ahead of me, him and Ritchford working together to steal the puck back from the Kings, who recovered it after my miss.
I'm playing defense now, getting in the middle and mucking up the Kings’ pathway toward Nash, who’s taking it toward the goal at another attempt to score.
I skirt in front of a right wing, watching as Stokehill lines up to take a shot, but at the last second, he sends the puck soaring to Ritchford, who smacks it in, the puck hitting the back of the net and securing our win.
The handful of Bangor fans in the stands are cheering as the timer sounds, indicating the end of the game.
I don't join the celebration that's happening on the ice.
I don't raise my fist or offer high fives, instead shaking my head as I skate off the ice, my raucous team following behind me as we head to the away-team locker room.
I shed half of my gear, resting my elbows on my knees as Coach stands in the middle of the room.
“Good win tonight, Badgers!” he says, smiling as he glances around at all of us. “The Kings are an admirable team, and you held tight despite the fight they put up. There were some slip-ups,” he continues, and I can’t help but feel a sting hit my chest when his eyes meet mine. “But that’s to be expected. Y’all played as a team. I’m proud of each and every one of you. Keep it up!” He nods, high fiving a few of the rookies as he leaves the locker room, leaving the rest of us to get showered.
I'm the last one in the locker room, sitting there going over every move I made in the game, my brow furrowed, wondering how the hell he'd stopped that shot.
“What's the matter there, Wolfe?” Coach asks me, his voice suddenly snapping me out of my internal turmoil. I thought he’d left, but maybe he’d come back after everyone else had gone. “The team bus leaves in ten minutes, but you’re still in here pouting. You can't celebrate a win unless you scored a goal?”