Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
It’s summer and hot for September. I’m wearing jeans and a silky black sleeveless top—at least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s not that Miles likes the ink on my arms so much he once bought me earrings that reminded him of my tattoos—earrings I’m wearing tonight.
I don’t have to look for him; he’s already here, chatting at the counter with the guys. I should’ve been ready for it—that jolt I felt when I saw him earlier tonight—the first time I’ve seen him since the season ended. But it surprised me again tonight, maybe because he looks so good. Like he’s worked out even more in the off-season. His arms are stronger, chest broader, and his hair a little longer and messier.
I’m not complaining.
I’m acutely aware of him across the coffee shop, which is closed for the private party but serving champagne and, naturally, coffee spiked with liquor. But I stick with a group of friends, where Maeve is thanking us for the real party favors—chocolates shaped like paintbrushes, hockey sticks, and a ring for their marriage.
“You’re the best, and I love you,” Maeve says, pulling us into a group hug. When we let go, I grab my camera from my bag and snap a few pictures. “I can’t resist,” I say, since I want her to have pictures of tonight.
“You’re the best,” she says again, then nods to my camera. “And you better send me those.”
“Obviously,” I say. “Also, just try to stop me from taking more all night long.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she says.
“Good.”
“But I don’t want you to feel like you have to,” she adds, and it’s thoughtful the way she looks out for me professionally. There’s no need though.
“Trust me, I want to,” I add.
“Thanks.” Then she leans closer, her gaze straying across the room briefly before she turns back to me, saying in a lower voice, “And someone can’t take his eyes off you.”
My body reacts instantly—a tingle slides down my spine, chased by excitement. I shouldn’t want this. I really shouldn’t. And yet I want to eat up her comment with a spoon.
Stupid. So stupid.
“Well, he should probably stop, since my dad is here,” I say. That’s why I can’t talk to Miles tonight—I don’t want to give a thing away. This is just a party, and I’m just another face in the crowd tonight.
“And your dad’s walking toward him right now,” Maeve adds.
Tension flares in me. Worry, too, for no reason. It’s not like my dad is talking to him about me.
Still, I whip my gaze to them, curiosity gripping me.
Yep, there’s the coach talking to one of his star players, and since I have a solid view of my dad’s face, I’m pretty sure I can make out most of the words my father’s saying to the team’s center. Especially if you become co-captain.
I blink, then mutter, “Holy shit.”
“What?” Maeve asks.
Of course she doesn’t read lips. I do. I turn to her. “I think Miles is up for the captaincy.”
14
SHUTTERBUG
Miles
I’m still reeling—in a good way—from the twin bombshells Coach just dropped here at Asher’s wedding celebration. First, he told me the Sea Dogs traded for my brother, Tyler, from the Los Angeles Supernovas. Then, he hinted I’d be playing alongside him as co-captain.
Usually hockey teams have only one captain and a handful of alternates. But Coach said last season that he’d like to do things differently here with the pecking order. Change it up and have a true co-captain to lead alongside our current captain. I scan the crowded coffee shop across from that guy—Christian Winters. Christian’s been a Sea Dog for years, and everyone on the team looks up to him. With two young kids at home, though, I know he’d be glad to share some of the responsibilities that come with wearing the “C.”
And I’d really like to be that guy he shares them with.
It feels surreal. A few years ago, I was in Vancouver, watching the game from my couch, my knee still screaming post-surgery, my mind dark. Joanne was pulling away from me, and I from her, and my whole body aching and broken. Back then, I would never have believed I’d hear words like these.
All I wanted was to play again—just one more time. But to squeeze out a whole career after an ACL tear? One that’s—knock on all the wood in the world—going pretty damn well? I’d never have let myself believe it. That felt like too much to hope for. Too good. And now? Damn.
Really, I should say something to the man standing in front of me.
“That’s…great,” is all I can manage, though, as I stand at the coffee counter with my closest teammates and good friends—Asher, Max, and Wesley.
Coach McBride gives a professional smile, then claps me on the shoulder. “We’ll talk more at training camp, Falcon,” he says, his shrewd eyes glancing around at the party, teammates and friends toasting Asher and Maeve’s happily ever after. Then he turns to Asher with a nod. “No one wants the boss around too long. Congratulations, Callahan.”