Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
The Chicago player cuts left, and I follow—a half-second too late. An image of the towel falling flashes before me, and I lose my focus and the puck.
“Fuck,” I mutter, skating hard to catch up. Chicago doesn’t score, but that’s not the point. That’s not how I play the game, not who I am on the ice. I’m the goddamn playmaker. I ought to act like it.
I reset my mind and blot out anything but hockey.
It works.
Mostly.
Later in the third period, Lake passes to me, and I snag it clean, skating around the back of the net. For a second, everything clicks—the ice, the stick, my blades. Then I see the towel falling to the floor. Revealing her creamy flesh, her glorious tits, her pert nipples, and—
The puck slips off my stick.
Again.
By the end of the game, we’ve won 3-2, but when I look at that scoreboard, I don’t see the W. I see three goals scored by my teammates with zero assists from me. Three opportunities where I should have been there, should have contributed, and instead I was thinking about the way Mabel’s skin smelled like sweet peas, and fantasizing about how she might taste. Everywhere.
In the hallway after I’ve showered and changed, Theo catches up to me, slapping my shoulder like he didn’t even notice how scattered I was when I played.
“Tomorrow. Be there. Don’t forget,” he says.
I laugh, because of course I’ll be at Afternoon Delight. “What would I do without your reminder?” I deadpan.
He starts to walk away, then turns back with that grin that means trouble. “And don’t forget to show up on the ice too.”
I wince. Shit. He noticed. He fucking noticed.
But then he adds, “Just kidding. You’re always here, buddy. I don’t know how you do it.”
My head feels like it has whiplash. Is he saying I played badly? Is he giving me a hard time? But then I remind myself that Theo’s always given me a hard time. That’s what we do. That’s our friendship.
“Thanks, man,” I say, then ask him how he’s doing. He talks about the job a bit, since he works too hard, but then mentions he had a good date the other night.
“Nice,” I say, offering a fist for bumping. “You’re getting back out there?”
He knocks back but shrugs. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
He’s skeptical, since like most people, he’s been burned by love. When Ginny left, he was devastated, and I did my best to help him through it. Sometimes that meant golfing with him, which was no hardship. Other times, it meant just having him over for dinner with Charlotte, Mom, and Ray. “I’m rooting for you.”
“I know. And I appreciate it,” he says, then takes off, leaving me standing in the corridor with the uncomfortable realization that for the first time in my career, hockey wasn’t the only thing on my mind during a game.
His incomparably sexy, incredibly flirty, and big-hearted sister was.
Yet even though I wasn’t on top of my game, I just can’t seem to shake these thoughts of her. They chase me home as I leave the arena. They follow me along the highway as I drive. They whisper in my ear as I park my car in the garage and head into my quiet home.
I should review the to-do list for tomorrow morning. Do some light yoga. Ice my shoulder since my shoulder’s always sore.
But nope, as soon as I’m inside, I set the basting brush in my nightstand drawer. Put the towel next to it. Then, I take the panties out of my pocket and put them on top of the nightstand. I get ready for bed, and when I get under the covers, I grab the panties, bring them to my nose, and inhale them for a good long time.
Long enough that I replay her coming undone that afternoon.
That I rewind the sounds of her pleasure and picture the way she looks, blissed out and beautiful, as she comes.
I’m a grown-ass man spending the night with a pair of stolen underthings, hoping to catch the fading scent of a woman. This is beyond pathetic.
And yet, I don’t stop till I imagine her spread out here on my bed, legs wrapped tight around my head, fingers gripping my hair, calling my name.
The fridge is humming, cooling drinks. The café tables are polished, inviting soon-to-arrive customers. The mismatched plates from Reprise are stacked and ready to hold cakes, bars, and cookies. The speakers are itching to pump playlists, which I’ve programmed. The shelves are stocked with merch. And they’re apropos because we have our Fuck Mornings line of tees, mugs, and plates, with the swear word spelled with an asterisk. That’s the point of Afternoon Delight, after all. A bakery for those who want a fresh treat in the afternoon or evening too.