Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Damn, I was proud of myself. I sounded cool, calm, and reasonable.
And Walker didn’t like it. He fidgeted with the sleeve on his to-go cup, lips pursed unhappily. “I understand your consternation, but you should take me up on my consultation offer. I can help, you know.”
“No, thanks. Send me questions, and we’ll set up an appointment.”
“Wait.” He snagged my practice jersey and twisted on the bench. “To do this right, I’ll need three appointments.”
“You get one and—”
“Two. One will take place at my office and the second will be in the locker room. I’ll request permission with the athletic department to use approved game footage too. I run a professional operation—every i is dotted and every t is crossed,” he continued in a rush.
“I bet.”
Walker puffed up with indignation. “The purpose of What’s New, Smithton? is to positively highlight the community. Your story is uplifting and exciting and it’s a great opportunity—”
“For you to use me. For a story, for redemption. I get that.” I crumbled the bakery bag into a fist-sized ball and stood. “I’m not thrilled about it, but since I’m calling the shots now, I’ll let it slide. I’ll be in touch. Later, Woody.”
“My name is not Woody,” he gritted through his teeth.
I winked and made my exit, feeling mighty smug.
That went well, if I did say so myself. Very well.
CHAPTER 8
WALKER
Ty Czerniak was a monster. No, he was an overgrown man-child, high on his warped idea of power.
Terrible questions. Try again.
As if requesting me to revise a hundred questions over the past few days was somehow…fun. I growled at my cell and pushed it out of reach to avoid throwing it across the room.
Grr! I blew out an exasperated breath and retrieved my phone.
It’s customary to begin with standard noninvasive queries and end with something personal.
Three dancing dots later, Ty responded with a thumbs-down emoji. Boring. No one cares if I won a trophy in Mighty Mites.
Yes, they do. That question establishes how long you’ve played hockey without asking directly. It stays.
He sent a warning sign gif. Whoa, Nelly. Who has two thumbs and gets final say? This guy.
I gave up, scrolled for his number, and tapped Send.
“I didn’t know we were doing the talking on the phone thing,” Ty answered in greeting.
“We’re not, but I don’t have the mental spoons required to continue an inane text thread with you.”
“All right, but I gotta warn you…this is gonna cost you a few minutes off the clock,” Ty said in a lilting tone.
“It will not,” I huffed through my teeth.
“Will too.”
I bit back another “will not,” and reminded myself to stay calm as I massaged the bridge of my nose. The jock was officially under my skin in all the worst ways. It was time to try another tactic.
“If you don’t like my questions, perhaps you should write a few and text them to me.”
The line went quiet for a beat. “Cool. I can do that. It’ll be a long list, though. I’ll bring it to the interview.”
“No.” I cleared my throat and continued in a softer tone. “I’ll need to review them first. Email me.”
“My computer is at home…and I might forget.”
I sighed. “You could recite them over the phone or—”
“Nah, I’ll come by. It’ll give me a chance to inspect your studio.” Inspect my studio? The nerve! “What are you doing now?”
“Now? I’m a little busy. How about Thursday?” I asked.
“I have practice and I have to study for econ.”
“Friday?”
“I have a game and—”
“Fine,” I interrupted sharply, eyeing the stack of notes I was supposed to review for my journalism theory seminar. “Come now.”
Ty chuckled…an honest-to-God snicker of mirth. He was enjoying this, the egotistical, puffed-up, self-serving, pompous hockey hooligan.
“Cool. Gimme your deets.”
I gave him my address, disconnected the call, and lowered my forehead to my desk in defeat.
Ugh. I hated hockey.
Fifteen minutes later, the doorframe shook under the onslaught of a forceful knock. Mabel, my white Himalayan, meowed her annoyance and darted up the stairs to safety. I glanced after her wistfully, patting my wayward hair and pasting a smile on my face as I checked the peephole.
If there was one upside to my current pickle…Ty was easy on the eyes. His snug-fitted black T-shirt drew attention to his pecs and the dragon tattoo on his biceps. And don’t get me started on those delicious faded jeans.
Down, boy. Ty might be unbearably handsome, but he was a tiresome jerk. I regretted the necessity of pursuing this interview. I would have loved to forget about it entirely or choose a different player. But he was Smithton’s rising star, and I needed this to go well.
I opened the door with a flourish. “Welcome.”
Ty stepped inside, unabashedly scanning the foyer and adjacent living area. “Nice place.”
“Thanks.” I held out my hand expectantly. “Do you have the questions?”