Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
I tighten the laces on my skates and sigh before stretching my neck from side to side. I’ve been skating at the Concordia, Massachusetts, rec rink on Saturday evenings since I was five years old—nineteen dang years ago—and still, I’m never prepared for the violence the rec hockey league brings with it.
The Fighting Fangs and the Iron Knights are finishing up a game, and per usual, as I’ve been getting ready, I’ve drawn more than a few stares. It’s as if they’ve never seen a woman before. Wide eyes, gaping mouths, the whole nine yards.
I stand and bounce on my toes to make sure there aren’t any pinch points in my new skates, then pull my sweatshirt over my head and toss it in my bag.
As the final whistle blows, I move onto the ice as the men move off.
“Hey, Ky.”
I glance over to find one of the more harmless oglers named Holland looking at me, his slightly goofy smile drenched in sweat as he slides to a stop at the glass next to me.
“Hey,” I reply, my responding smile friendly.
“How’s it going? Skating alone tonight?”
Normally, my best friend Alyssa would be lacing up her skates as we speak, and a little bit of the attention would be split between us.
“Looks that way.” I shrug. “Alyssa has an assignment for her master’s program due at midnight tonight. Chronic procrastinator, that one.”
He laughs, nodding like it confirms something. “I could hang out if you want. Keep you company.”
“Uh…that’s nice of you…” I pause. There’s something about the way he says it—too casual, too easy—and I shake my head as an overwhelming burn blooms across the back of my neck. I spin on my skates to face him and start slowly skating backward toward the center of the rink. “But no thanks. I’m good. Just going to do some drills and then head home.”
“Yeah. Sure. See you next time,” he offers with a salute and steps off the ice.
I watch him head toward the locker room with the other guys on his team, and unease flickers through me for no real reason. I tell myself it’s nothing. I tell myself that, for the love of God, I need to get some good sleep tonight. Work’s been a real kick to the gonads lately, and the hours I’m putting in on a weekly basis—pushing seventy—are really starting to get to me.
I do a slow spin to test the texture of the ice—only to screech to a stop when I nearly collide with something solid enough to feel like a wall.
Grumpy. Serious. Glaring.
The Garbage Man. My garbage man. The one I chase down the street every Tuesday morning with my bin while he waits beside his big truck, arms crossed, looking like my existence personally offends him.
Rook Slater.
“Oh. Sorry,” I blurt out, trying to keep the peace even though he’s the one who skated right up on me.
I know he plays hockey—everyone knows the Slater brothers are real hard-asses on the ice, and I see him here all the time—but something about seeing him this up close and personal makes my stomach drop. He normally keeps his distance.
His alluring smell at this proximity is an unexpected addiction. Even sweaty, he smells sweet, like a perfectly salted chocolate chunk cookie—completely and utterly un-garbage-man-like. I resist the urge to suck in a breath of air and swallow by focusing on his looks instead.
He’s deadly handsome, I’ll give him that—dark hair, dark, mysterious eyes, and a jawline born of the gods—but he never fails to look like he’s swallowed a bundle of knives. Especially when he’s looking at me, a task in which he’s engaged fully right now.
First, my face, until his gaze tracks down my throat, my chest, and my hands before it snaps back up so fast it feels like I caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
He melts into both anger and something sharper, and goose bumps scatter up my arms and neck.
His jaw clenches. His shoulders tense. For half a second, it looks like he might say something, but just before the pinnacle of tension is released, he exhales through his nose, turns abruptly, and skates away hard and quick, like he’s trying to get away from me as fast as he can.
Okay. Rude.
I mean, I don’t know what I ever did to this guy, but clearly, he’s not my biggest fan.
Whatever. My worth doesn’t hinge on the guy who collects my garbage, for Pete’s sake. Not that there’s anything wrong with blue-collar work—actually, it’s hot knowing a man is good with his hands. But Rook Slater is such a fringe part of my life, he doesn’t deserve main character headspace.
I shake it off and skate toward center ice, but my focus slips as I watch Rook reach the benches and nearly tear off his skates while his brothers move toward him. Their tone is much more jovial—one of them, Kane maybe, even tosses me a wink—as their blond and brown heads respectively glint in the fluorescent light from overhead. But when they reach him, and exchange low words I can’t hear, their faces turn serious.