Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Riley appears on time, dressed in an oversized pink coat, tight jeans, and New Balance sneakers. It’s a look I like: relaxed, not trying too hard. She’s drawn her hair into a messy bun, and the pink gloss on her lips makes her mouth look delicious.
Her eyes trail me from head to toe and back again, not giving too much away, but I think she likes what she sees. I hope she does. We meet in the middle, and I lean in to kiss her cheek.
“Hayes,” she says in her honey-rich voice. She reaches up to touch my cheek next to the wound that’s crusted over. “Jansen is an asshole.”
“He is.”
“You were…” She pauses, searching for the word.
“Unhinged,” I laugh.
“Fierce,” she corrects.
“Coach had another word for it,” I say. “But I won’t repeat it.”
“He doesn’t want you in the penalty box.”
I shrug and turn as the door to O’Connor’s opens, and people and noise flood the sidewalk.
“Let’s get inside,” I say. “I need a celebratory beer.”
“Sounds good.”
I open the door for Riley to step through first and then lead her to the bar. There is one free stool, which I offer her, and I nod at the barman so he knows we need serving. Before we have a chance to begin a conversation, I’m inundated by happy fans, high from the victory.
“How’s the fist, Drayton?” someone asks. I show him my uninjured hand, and a whoop of celebration follows.
“That was some goal.”
“Yeah. Jacob was flying tonight.”
“And Shawn’s shut-out…bet he was buzzing.”
“For sure. Thanks, guys.” I shake hands and then turn my back, so they get the hint that I’m busy. There are nights when I don’t mind rehashing the game, but this isn’t one of them.
“You always get that?” Riley asks.
“Yeah.” I pick up a beer mat and spin it on its corner. “I don’t mind. It’s part of the job.”
“What about when you go pro?”
“If,” I say, surprising myself.
Her eyes widen, and she leans back. “You mean you’re thinking about stopping when you graduate?”
“I don’t know.” The beer mat drops back onto the bar, and I twist it again. “I don’t know what I want to do. I’ve been playing hockey since I was a kid. It’s like, I know there are so many things out there, but I’ve never raised my line of sight to consider what it might be like to do something else. I’m a Drayton, and Draytons play ice hockey.” I frown at my confession. Why the fuck am I spilling my secrets to this girl?
“What else would you like to do?”
Now, there’s a good question. “I’m majoring in psychology. I had this idea to work on the other side of hockey, with players who have the skill but can’t quite break through the mental barriers to play their best game.”
“Sports psychology,” she says. “Is that a big thing in hockey?”
“Yeah. It’s big and only getting bigger. Teams want to get the best out of their expensive players. There’s so much movement in the league. Sometimes, it’s just about working on team dynamics. Helping them shed their old mindset and ways of working and fitting in with new people and expectations.”
“Makes sense.”
The barman approaches and I indicate for Riley to order first. “I’ll have what you’re having,” she says.
“Beer?”
“Sure.”
I order a light local draft with warm undertones, and we watch as the barman expertly pours each glass. Riley sips hers as I pay, licking away foam bubbles from her top lip, and I watch the motion with fascination.
Jesus. What would it be like to kiss her, and slide my tongue over hers? To know the heat of her mouth and her taste. Before I can turn my thoughts to something less erotic, my cheeks grow hot. This stupid sweater wasn’t a good idea. I tug it over my head, rucking up my undershirt in the process. When I emerge from the green fabric, Riley’s eyes focus on my bare abs. When I tug down my shirt, she blushes, caught ogling me.
“So, what was the locker room like after the game?” she asks quickly.
“Jubilant,” I say. “As you’d expect.”
“Do you have any celebratory rituals?”
I was not involved in choosing Justin Timberlake’s ‘Stop the Feeling’ as our victory song. When I tell Riley, she cracks up. “You all seriously dance around to Justin? Like, with the moves from the video?”
“I’ve never watched the video,” I admit. “The team are fucking graceful on the ice, but their dancing skills are cataclysmic.”
“I’d like to see that.” She smiles, then raises her eyebrows expectantly. Is she expecting a demonstration from me? The bar has music, but it’s not a venue where dancing happens regularly. All around us, half-drunk men are high on the Icebreaker’s victory. A roar goes up in the corner, and I turn to find Forester and some of the football team sprinkling salt onto a woman’s cleavage before drinking shots of tequila. She’s inundated with men, dipping their heads to lick her skin.