Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Hey, it’s more words than he’s spoken to me all summer, so there’s that.
Apparently it took a couple of hours for the shock of seeing me and Ezra together to register, and then he hit a whole new level of angry. Silent treatment: achievement unlocked.
And shit, maybe it worked, because all summer, I did what he’d told me to do. I studied my ass off. I dropped the kids off at hockey. I went to school. I kept my head down. And I still only scraped by with a C in all my classes.
What do I have to show for it? A weakened body and slack playing. Hell, I’m slower than a lot of the freshmen out here. This is what happens when you spend all your time indoors and not working out. I don’t know how nerds do it.
After my brother’s torture, then comes Coach Hogan with skating drills.
“Blue Red Crossover, go.”
We don’t get a break before he’s calling out the next one.
“Dot Drill.”
Over and over again, drill to drill, Coach Hogan doesn’t let up.
My lungs burn, and my muscles are starting to cramp. I am so unfit compared to a mere eight weeks ago. Note to self: learn to read while running on a treadmill or something.
Coach Hogan blows his whistle. “Box skate!”
We all groan.
He’s never like this. He’s a hardass but never this sadistic during training. Some of the guys in the locker room said he goes all out for the first practice of the year, but I wouldn’t know—I was a late recruit last season.
A few newbies ask under their breaths how I was drafted to the NHL when I skate slower than a turtle in mud, but they’re not as quiet as they think they are.
I’d like to tell them all to fuck off, but I can’t even breathe, let alone speak.
And then the worst thing that could possibly happen does. My gut churns, and my lunch tries to make its way back up. It’s a sprint to the sidelines so I can throw myself into the team box and hurl into a trash can.
“That might be a new record,” Coach says. I turn my head to find him looking at his watch. “All right. Practice over. Someone make sure Dalton is hydrated.”
Rossi, this year’s captain, helps me off the ice.
Kill me now. I’ll never live this down.
The familiar need to fight someone flares up. At least if they’re distracted by my being an asshole, they won’t focus on how weak I am. I’d rather people hate me than think I’m a joke.
And yep, even though I hold my head up high as I walk into the locker room, I’m met with snickers all round.
Great. Just great. Maybe I should’ve spent last year getting closer to Rossi or Simms, but instead I made friends with a guy who was graduating. Then again, that would’ve been difficult considering I took first line center—a position both Rossi and Simms were gunning for.
I start stripping down at my cubby and ignore everyone around me. I’m down to my jockstrap when a bottle of Gatorade is thrust in front of my face.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
“No problem. I know from experience how hard Coach can push.” He says that, but when I turn my head, it’s not any of my teammates standing there.
It’s a guy maybe an inch or two shorter than my six-one frame with dirty-blond hair, warm hazel eyes, and a cute smile. He looks too thin to be a hockey player.
He leans in. “He always goes too far on day one. Likes to pretend to be tough for all the new kids, but I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He lowers his voice. “He’s a big teddy bear underneath all that.”
Coach Hogan a teddy bear? Is this guy high?
“If you say so.”
“I’m Kole.” That killer smile widens. “Kole Hogan.”
My face falls. “Coach is …”
“My dad. And this year I’m your equipment manager, so if you need anything, let me know, and I’ll give it to you.”
My cock twitches. What he said wasn’t supposed to sound sexual, but apparently my body is going to take it that way. I mentally tell it to calm the hell down because having sex with a cactus would be less dangerous than fooling around with Coach’s son, even if that destructive part inside me is already reveling in the fallout that tryst would bring.
As I watch Kole’s gaze move over my almost naked form, I have to wonder if there was sexual innuendo implied after all.
I clear my throat. “Thanks for the drink.”
Move away, Asher. Move away before you do or say something Asher-like.
“No problem.”
I step away from him and head for the showers, realizing I still have the bottle of Gatorade in my hand and not my towel.
Fucking hell. Kole’s still standing by my cubby when I march back in there and trade them out. He chuckles as I walk away again.