Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
At my building, Dalton parks and gets out to open my door. He escorts me right up to my apartment, his hand on my lower back the whole way creating a buzzing sensation all up and down my spine. I freeze at the door, not knowing what he expects. “Um, want to come in?”
We both know what will happen if he does.
His gaze drops from my eyes to my lips and then back. I watch that cocky smile create tiny lines at the corners of his twinkling eyes. “I think I should go . . . this time. But Joy . . .”
He tilts my chin up gently, moving in with confidence that I’m going to let him kiss me. He’s right. I want his lips, his tongue, his hands on my body. I want his cock. Desperately.
But he kisses me, and I can’t be disappointed in that. Not when he sips at me, savoring me to the point that a growl rumbles in his throat, and his hands roam over my body, squeezing here and there as if he’s memorizing every inch of my flesh through the thin layer of spandex that’s keeping him from touching my actual skin.
Too soon, he pulls back. “Today was fun. I can’t wait to do it again.” His grin this time is boyish, almost shy, which is something Dalton Days is not.
Before I can say anything, he steps away, striding down the hall and leaving me breathless and needy. Before the corner, he looks back, waves, and is gone.
I press my fingers to my kiss-swollen lips, feeling the smile there, and then hold them over my heated cheeks.
I think this was my first actual date with Dalton Days. A date . . . with an athlete.
I wait for the dark pit of fear to form in my gut, but it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel warmth spreading everywhere.
Chapter 18
Dalton
Coach Wilson is out for blood. And once again, it seems the only blood that’ll satisfy his vampiric urges is our own.
He’s been in a mood the last week, driving us in practices, demanding one-on-ones with everyone, and reviewing footage like he’s getting paid by the second.
“Questions?” he asks the team, who’s gathered in a conference room at the local ice rink, as he turns off the projector and gestures for someone at the back to turn the lights on.
Shepherd raises his hand like this is elementary school math class. Coach points at him. “You worried we’re not ready for the Rockets?” Shep looks concerned, but also primed and ready to alleviate any of Coach’s doubts.
Coach’s face turns a scary shade of red. “We’d better be because Jenkins will make sure they’re ready for us.”
Coach Jenkins is the newly promoted head coach of the Radio City Rockets. They’re not our team nemesis, but Coach Wilson and Jenkins have gone at it before. As in, last season they memorably spent minutes screaming at each other through the glass that separates our two benches before simultaneously climbing over the glass to start throwing punches like a couple of pro wrestlers in a cage match. Eventually, the referees broke them apart, but it seems Coach is not looking to repeat that action.
“Heard.” Shep’s answer triggers a chorus of echoes, each of us ready to go into battle to defend our coach’s honor and reputation. “Everyone, hit the showers, ice baths, saunas, or whatever the hell Fritzi has you doing for your own damn good. Practice at dawn tomorrow.”
A groan rises up around the room. “Dawn?” someone repeats.
Shep grins wolfishly. “Dawn or ten a.m., whichever comes later.”
Chuckles erupt. “That’s more like it!”
We begin to disperse, and I hear my name. “Days, a minute please?” I follow the sound to see Coach Wilson deadeye staring me down and waving me over.
Shit. What does he want? I’m killing myself out there and blocking everything the guys throw at me, which maybe doesn’t bode well for scoring, but at least makes it more certain that we won’t lose by the other team racking up points.
“Coach?” I answer, sitting down across the table from him.
He narrows his eyes at me. “You’ve been hot and cold this season,” he starts. I want to refute his analysis, but the truth is, he’s right, so there’s no use in trying to play it off. I grit my teeth and don’t respond. “Whatever it takes, be hot this weekend. I need you on fire, like a funeral pyre for Jenkins out there. I want a big, fucking goose egg next to the Rockets’ name on the scoreboard. Nothing gets past you, no matter what. I don’t care if you have to break your neck, move the goal, or build a plywood wall. Got it?”
I give him a clipped nod. “Understood, Coach.”
Hopeful that the pep talk is all he wanted with me, I start to stand, but he holds up a staying hand. “Also, what’re you doing over winter break? You going home for Christmas?”