Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Bryson
Elmwood isn’t good for my love life. Sorry. I’m a positive person and I have nothing but wonderful things to say about small town life, but I haven’t had a date, let alone a boyfriend in years. That’s fine. My son is and always has been my number one focus.
Except now he’s grown and is rarely home. And it’s lonely.
Yes, the new hockey coach is hot and single, but he’s off limits. Smitty’s trouble with a capital T and his baggage outweighs mine. Besides, we said nothing would happen after “that” night. It was a one-time, never to be repeated deal.
So why can’t I stay away from him?
Smitty
Am I sad about retiring from pro hockey? Honestly, no. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t in pain. My body needs a rest, but I can’t go home. Everything has changed there and I need a distraction. Stat.
So… Elmwood.
Look, we all know I won’t last a whole season of coaching high school kids, but stepping in till they find a better candidate is a good temporary plan. And Bryson’s here.
There’s something about the hot dad with the sunny smile and bad jokes that makes me feel alive again. Look, I’m not in the market for forever. Been there, done that. I’ve risked my body, but I’m not giving my heart away again. I know thin ice when I see it.
Or do I?
Thin Ice is an MM bisexual, small town romance featuring a silver fox dad, a bad boy hockey player, and a new start on solid ground.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
BRYSON
“In skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
Tie game, third period, less than four minutes on the clock.
The entire arena was electric. Everyone was on their feet, stomping, clapping, cheering, and bellowing their lungs out with a rabid air of anticipatory excitement. The wall of sound echoed, ratcheting up a few notches at the barrage of whistles as two refs descended on a scrap-up left of Toronto’s goal and sent one of their forwards to the sin bin for tripping.
Finally! The Scorpions needed this break. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood, willing our guys to score on this power play.
“Oh, crisse! What is wrong with Jeffries? He is slower than the molasses in the—” Jean-Claude snapped his fingers and wrinkled his nose, his Quebecois accent thick with frustration. “What is the saying?”
“January,” I replied, my gaze locked on number twelve. “C’mon, Jake, c’mon.”
JC scoffed. “Slower than January? Weird, okay.”
“Slower than molasses in January.” Riley elbowed his husband playfully. “You’re right. He’s having an off night and Jake is—oh…let’s go, Jake!”
Jake had the puck. He skated like the wind with Toronto’s beast of a D-man on his tail. The knot in my stomach tightened, making me woozy. There was nothing quite like watching your twenty-one-year-old son being chased like a deer trying to outrun a hungry lion. And that was exactly what was happening out there.
Damn, I was getting too old for this. The gut-wrenching stomachaches I’d remembered from watching Jake’s youth hockey games were nothing compared to an AHL division playoff game with seasoned, tough-as-nails players vying for their shot to play in the championship. I’d known this was going to be a rough one, but I’d underestimated Toronto’s tenacity. And I definitely hadn’t considered how terrifying it would be to see my son being pursued by Smitty Paluchek, a six-foot-five force to be reckoned with.
Paluchek had garnered a reputation for being a monster on the ice. I was pretty sure he’d played a few games in the NHL too, but he hadn’t played for Philly or a team I’d rooted for, so I hadn’t followed his career.
All I knew was that Jake thoroughly disliked him, which I suspected had more to do with being intimidated by a veteran who pulled no punches rather than a personal issue with his character.
I clenched my jaw, willing Jake to pass to Lombardi or Newinski or anyone before he got clobbered.
Jake was quick, but Smitty was a behemoth who used his might and impressive muscle mass to clear the ice and keep pesky forwards from scoring by whatever means necessary. Holy shit. He was going to make mincemeat out of my son in front of my very eyes.
It wasn’t quite that dramatic, but sure enough, Smitty cut him off, blocking Jake’s errant wrist shot with ease. He delivered a wicked hip check for his troubles and dumped the puck to a teammate just as the penalty clock ran out. So much for our big break.
JC, Riley, and I, along with the other Scorpion fans in the building, let out a collective groan and commenced screaming for our defense to get their asses in gear.