Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 83550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
“Yeah.” I almost wince as the word slips free.
“And you’ll wear the jersey?”
“It would be rude if I didn’t after you bought it for me,” I mumble as my cheeks heat under the intensity of his stare.
His expression relaxes as the corners of his lips quirk. “When have you ever been worried about being rude?”
I can’t help but snort.
He’s got me there.
Before I can come up with a snappy retort, he leans closer and brushes his lips across mine. Our gazes stay fastened until he pulls away and rises from the bed with a lazy stretch. It’s only then that I notice the massive boner he’s sporting.
Damn.
A thick shiver slides through me as I remember how good the stroke of his hard length felt. It takes a moment to realize that while I got off, he didn’t.
After giving me a delicious orgasm, he asked for nothing in return.
“Am I free to go, or would you like to keep staring?” His tone drops, turning husky. “Because I certainly don’t mind you eating me up with your eyes. In fact, I kind of like it.”
I clear my throat. “Need a hand with that?”
“As tempting as the offer is, I don’t think we have time. You stroking my cock isn’t something I want to rush.” He nods toward the door. “I’ll take care of it in the shower.”
My brows rise, and even though I just came, the mental image of Bridger stroking his hard length turns me on all over again.
There’s no doubt about it, dropping my guard was a bad idea. And if I’m not careful, it’s going to lead to problems.
If it hasn’t already.
“Okay.”
He pauses. “Can I take a rain check?”
I shrug, needing to shake off the disappointment that has settled over me. It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense why I would feel this way. “We’ll see.”
A chuckle slips free from him as he steps into the hallway, leaving me alone in his room. I collapse against the pillows and stare at the ceiling, wondering exactly how I ended up in Bridger Sanderson’s bed.
Even harder to believe… I just might be enjoying it.
20
Bridger
The sharp slap of my stick against the ice reverberates in my ears as I dig in, chasing the puck down the boards. My pulse thunders, the stress of the playoff game pressing down on me.
This isn’t just about winning.
It’s about fighting for my place and proving to the team, and myself, that I deserve to be here. That I’m more than the sum of my screw-ups.
And then there’s my father.
Even without looking, I can feel his disapproval radiating from the stands. It’s the same suffocating presence I’ve been dealing with my entire life.
As my gaze flicks to the crowd, I don’t focus on his scowl.
I focus my attention on something else.
Someone else entirely.
Holland.
She’s sitting with the other girlfriends and wives, wearing my jersey.
My number.
Emotion wells inside me. It’s a strange concoction of pride and confusion. She doesn’t look like she wants to be here. Her back is straight and her face is unreadable.
But she came.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure if she’d show.
The odds were fifty-fifty at best.
Even though I only falter for a fraction of a second, that’s all it takes.
“Sanderson!” Coach’s sharp voice cuts through the air.
But it’s too late.
The puck slips past my stick before getting snapped up by the other team. I pivot hard and chase it down, but I’m behind the play. My gut twists as I watch them line up the shot and send the black disc sailing into our net.
The clang of the goal feels like a gunshot.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, skating back to the line. The groans from the crowd hit me like a wave.
I don’t look at my father. I don’t want to see the disgust and anger that will be written across his face.
Coach catches my attention before motioning for me to come off the ice. My legs feel like lead as I make it to the bench.
“Akeman, you’re in,” Coach calls, barely sparing me a glance.
Garret knocks into my shoulder with his own. “You’re making this too damn easy, Sanderson,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear.
My jaw tightens as I grip my stick until my knuckles ache. The game continues, but I’m stuck in my head. My mistakes seem to multiply. Another fumbled play along with a turnover. It’s like quicksand, and there’s no way to get out of it.
By the time the buzzer sounds, we’ve managed to scrape out a win by one goal. My teammates are buzzing with relief and celebration, but I can’t bring myself to join in. My stomach churns as I skate off the ice, my gaze darting toward the stands.
Holland’s eyes find mine, and for a split second, it feels like everything slows. There’s no scorn in her expression, no pity. Just something soft, something I don’t deserve right now.