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)
My friends thought it was hysterical.
“Is that ‘tells all’ or ‘bares all’?” Langley joked, scrolling his cell after practice.
I threw a roll of tape at his head, then sauntered to the showers buck-ass naked with my towel draped over my shoulder as our teammates hooted with laughter.
Good. My acting abilities were my unsung superpower. It was best if everyone thought I was mucking up my local celebrity moment.
Truthfully, I felt squicky as fuck about the interview, and not because I’d basically done a one-eighty by agreeing to it. No, my weird exchange of secrets with Walker weighed on me like a burden. Add that impromptu, impossible-to-explain kiss, and I just wanted to close this chapter as fast as possible.
Too bad, ’cause if we hadn’t ended up in each other’s dish in all the wrong ways recently, I would have been stoked to be on his channel. Now…not so much.
But the lead-up press was a hit. Maybe that wasn’t surprising. Smithton loved its athletes—especially hockey players.
The storefronts on Main Street were a riot of blues and reds on game days. Pennants were taped in the windows, Bears flags flew proudly, and some shop owners even wore our jerseys. I’d been spoiled with complimentary treats and freebies for three solid years, and I loved it. My job, win or lose, was to do Smithton proud, and I’d embraced the challenge wholeheartedly.
I wasn’t shy. I had a healthy ego, and I didn’t mind playing up to the hype. It didn’t take much—grandiose entrances with big smiles, fist bumps for everyone waiting in line at Coffee Cave or scarfing pancakes and bacon at Bear Depot—but this upcoming interview added an uneasy element. Sure, I could talk about hockey all day long. It just would have been nice not to be thinking twenty-four-seven about the guy doing the interview.
Days later, I was still thinking about a kiss that could have been chalked up to heated tempers and a whole lot of nothing. But damn, it had been enough to inspire some fantasy material that would have made his red hair stand on end. One little taste and I wanted more. I wanted to lick Walker all over, push my tongue into his mouth, touch him…everywhere.
Screwing around with closet cases like Carson was all well and good, but I hadn’t kissed a man in…geez, a year? I hadn’t held a man, savored the feel of hard planes and a stubbled jaw in even longer.
See, the bombshell Valentine Day kiss cam that had accidentally outed Jett scared the shit out of me. I’d been two years behind Jett in college, and I hadn’t wanted to fuck up my shot at the pros. My agent had said a few things about that episode too.
“Whatever you do, don’t get caught with your dick where it shouldn’t be, Czerniak. Be fucking smart,” Toby had warned.
The irony of my current situation wasn’t lost on me. My version of being “careful” had led me straight to Walker. And then I’d gone and kissed him like a real dumbass.
It was one time. Not the end of the world. I could still get out of this mess. I just had to get through this interview and…do my fucking research.
You couldn’t tell someone your childhood hero was their dad and not expect them to launch a full-on investigation, right?
Fact: I was a mediocre student at best. My ability to play hockey was the only reason I’d been offered a place at Smithton. I’d had a few offers out of high school, but a free ride at a well-respected private college had been my version of finding a golden ticket in a chocolate bar a la Willy Wonka. As one of six kids, there was no fucking way my parents would have been able to contribute to my tuition. I would have been saddled with student loans that would have taken a lifetime to pay off. Assuming I’d passed the entrance exams.
But I had issues with concentration and mild dyslexia. Sitting in classrooms for too long made me feel itchy. However, like most of my generation, I excelled at the art of online sleuthing.
Ketchum Clomsky was a fucking legend who’d played for Ottawa for over a decade and had quietly retired twelve years ago. I’d loved his tenacity before I’d understood what the word meant. He never gave up, he never backed down. He was fearless and lithe, and according to my mom, very handsome.
Maybe so, but even after I’d figured out I was bi, Clomsky’s looks had never been on my radar. To me, he embodied what hockey was all about—physicality, unpredictability, and crazy speed. I used to watch him skate, memorizing the way he held his stick and seemed to float on ice. Every tic and mannerism had been noteworthy to my younger self. I knew his stats, kept records of his goals and assists, and could still vividly recall some of his finest plays.