Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 52183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Serena brings our food out, and as she delivers Kit’s plate, she asks if she can take a selfie with him to send to her sorority sister. I’m rolling my eyes inside as she cozies up to Kit and tries to find the perfect lighting.
I take notes on their interaction, ignoring the growl of protest from my stomach with my food just inches away. If I were to be interested in a man—which I am not—it would be a serious sort. A professor or scientist. Maybe a fellow journalist, who I could talk shop with. It definitely wouldn’t be a flirtacious pro athlete who attracts women like bees to honey.
For the remainder of the interview, I ask all the questions, and I keep my gaze down on my notebook. Kit Carter isn’t going to charm me into writing a puff piece about him. Every interaction we have will be strictly professional.
Fortunately, being stiff and impersonal comes naturally to me.
Chapter Six
Kit
* * *
“Hey, can you maybe give my wife some hair tips?” Tony Russo asks me as we wait for the referee to drop the puck for the faceoff. “Like how to get that gleaming Fabio shine?”
“Already did, bro. Last night. Wasn’t she walking funny when she got home this morning?”
“Shit, Carter.” My opponent laughs. “I get laid a hundred times more than you do, and I’m fucking married.”
“The whole world hears it every time, too,” I say, grinning.
The entire league calls Russo “Moany Tony” because his teammates say when he’s having sex, he moans so loud the entire floor of whatever hotel they’re at can hear it. He’s just chirping at me, but it grinds my gears that even guys on opposing teams know my sex life is nonexistent.
As soon as the puck drops, everything but the game slips away. Easy and I have been playing together for so long that we know what the other will do before he does it. Porter is a newer addition to our line, but he’s a solid player and the three of us gel.
I glance at the press box but can’t find Molly in the group of reporters there. Immediately I wonder if she decided not to come. I hope not. I’ve been thinking about seeing her all day.
Returning my focus to the game, I don’t think about whether Molly came again until after we’ve pulled off a 3–2 win.
“Josh,” I call out to our training intern on the way to the locker room after the game.
“Yeah?”
“Can you do me a favor and ask someone in PR if Molly Lynch is on the list of reporters here tonight?”
He gives me a blank look, but then nods. I feel kind of bad for asking him to do me a favor that’s not training-related.
“And after that, could you maybe work on my shoulder a little bit?” I ask him.
“Yeah, definitely,” he says, brightening.
My shoulder’s fine, but some ice and stretching won’t hurt. It’ll give me an excuse not to do any post-game interviews, too. I got a penalty for hooking tonight, which was bullshit, and reporters love to ask us about penalties. I’d probably just get myself in more trouble by answering those questions.
Josh is waiting by my locker when I get out of the shower.
“Molly Lynch was in the press box tonight,” he says.
“Good. Thanks.”
“Want me to work on your shoulder now?”
“Yeah, let me get dressed and I’ll meet you in the training room.”
I put on some boxers and then sit down on the bench to text Molly.
Me: Hope you enjoyed the game. We’re going to Lucky’s, want to ride with me?
Molly: No thanks, I’ll meet you there.
I smile at my phone. Molly brushes me off like no one else, and I like that about her. I just hope she doesn’t walk to Lucky’s—it’s a good three miles from the arena, and it’s freezing outside.
My hair’s still damp when Josh finishes working on my shoulder and I change into a suit to leave the arena. There’s a group of fans crowded around the exit from the player’s parking lot, many faces painted red and their breath coming out in puffs of cold air. I honk and wave, but don’t stop to sign autographs like usual because I don’t want to leave Molly waiting.
It’s me who ends up waiting, though. My suit jacket is on the back of my chair and my shirt sleeves are rolled up, my first glass of beer nearly empty when she comes walking into Lucky’s in her parka, her face red from the cold.
“You walked here, didn’t you?” I say, walking over to greet her.
She pulls her hood down and runs a hand through her dark hair. “I told you, I walk everywhere.”
I sigh to myself and ask, “Can I take your coat?”
“I’ve got it, thanks. Just take me to the teammates who know all your darkest, dirtiest secrets.”