Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
“Hmph,” he grunts, unimpressed. “What else?”
But he’s on the hook, and mentally, I sing, ‘here, fishie, fishie’.
“With a card apologizing for the blindside, and saying that we’re still thinking of her and hope she’s thinking of us.”
Waiting for him to agree feels like waiting for the puck to drop, like the action I constantly crave is less than a heartbeat away. Steady… steady… wait for it…
“That could work,” he finally says.
I throw my arms in the air in a V of victory. “Yes! I knew you’d be on board… eventually. After you got over your hurt feewings.”
“Asshole,” he mutters under his breath, sounding like he’s the long-suffering one in our partnership when he only has to deal with me. I have to deal with him. Louder and sterner, he decrees, “We send it with no expectations from her for more. We do owe her an apology, and I do hope she’s thinking good things about us. But that’s it. No pressure. She drew her line in the sand, and we need to respect that.”
He’s trying to sound chivalrous and evolved, but what he really means is obvious to me—he’s too scared to risk it all again. He did that once and it blew up in his face, so he’s understandably reluctant to put himself out there again. Hell, that’s how we ended up doing what we do. I was all too happy to be a crutch for him while he got his head right. I never thought it’d turn out like this, but I can’t say I’m upset about it. Especially if it eventually ends up with Kayla between us.
“Of course, just a kind gesture to smooth things over. That’s all, nothing more, nothing less,” I assure him, lying through my teeth.
Delivery complete.
The notification on my phone sends a thrill through me. The puck is in play. The game is on.
Riggs is pacing around the media room, completely ignoring the replay of the 1980 Miracle on Ice Olympic semifinal between the US and the Soviets that we’ve seen dozens of times, since every hockey player is brought up on the classics. But he’s not distracted. No matter which way he’s striding across the room, his single-minded focus has been on my phone’s screen, so he sees the notification light it up and instantly barks, “What’s it say?”
I hold up my phone, showing him. “And now, we wait.”
He resumes his trek from one wall to the other. It’s never seemed like a small room, considering we’ve got seats for fifteen butts in here, but he’s making me dizzy with the back-and-forth motion.
“I thought you were all ‘no pressure’ and ‘respect her boundaries’.” Taunting him when he’s in a mood like this is dangerous, especially when I’m in a bad mood too. I’m better at hiding it, but that doesn’t mean I make good choices when I’ve got a thorn in my ass about something. Especially a thorn as sharp and deeply implanted as Kayla.
“I am!” he snaps. “But I still want to make sure she gets that message and doesn’t think we’re ignoring what she said.”
“Aren’t we, though?”
He whirls, glowering at me. “What? You said it would be a kind gesture.”
“And you believed me?” I ask, incredulous. “What do I know? I’ve never even dated seriously. And you’re no better. The one serious relationship you had, she ended up being an evil bitch.”
I shouldn’t call Eliza that. It’s mean to female dogs to be grouped in with her after the way she acted. Thankfully, before Riggs can read me the riot act for it, my phone dings.
I can buy myself flowers. But thank you. They’re gorgeous.
“Is it her?” Riggs demands, reaching for my phone.
Jerking it out of his grasp, I growl, “Hands off, asshole. She texted me.” But I flash him a shit-eating grin, intentionally poking the bear. Or well… the Riggs, but kinda the same difference.
“Because you’re the one who gave her your number.”
“Exactly,” I agree, “which means I get to talk to her and you don’t.” Risking my life and limb, I make a hip-thrusting, arm-pumping motion, implying I don’t mean just talking at all. But not wanting to push too far, I relent and read her text aloud to him. “Now what?”
He flops to the couch beside me. “She has a point. Flowers were lame.”
“They were better than any idea you had, which was nothing, and they did get her to text us. We’re basically back in, baby.” I hold my hand up for a celebratory high-five. Riggs shakes his head, leaving me hanging, so I high-five myself.
He lays his head back on the couch, an arm thrown over his eyes. “What are we going to say back? Sorry for not leaving you alone… again?”
I roll my eyes. This motherfucker is all-apologies thanks to Eliza. I swear, he’s not still hung up on her in the slightest. In fact, I think he’d rather cut his dick off than ever see her again. Okay, maybe not his dick, but a toe or a pinkie finger for sure. You can play hockey without those. I know a guy who proves that point. But since he hasn’t really dated after she gutted him, the damage she did is coming to the surface like bubbles of pain past, and if there’s one thing Eliza always wanted, it was an apology for some imagined slight, usually in the form of retail therapy.