Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
The light flips to green, and I press down on the gas a little harder than before. “Do you look at them?” I ask, barely above a whisper but loud enough, I hope, for her to hear.
“What do you think?” Her voice is light but tinged with something more.
“Why aren’t you answering me?”
“Why are you dying to know?”
The answer bursts out of me. “Because I’d look at them if I had them. I wouldn’t stop looking at them,” I say, not bothering to play it cool.
Her gaze softens, but there’s something bittersweet in her tone as she says, “That’s why I held on to them. To look at them.”
The light ahead changes to red, and I slow down, the weight of her words sinking in. “I want them.”
She raises a brow. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Why? Are they bad photos?”
Her lips twitch into a smile. “No, they’re good.”
“So I’ll like them,” I say, feeling…relief, but a wild excitement too.
“Maybe too much,” she adds.
I’ll consider myself warned.
That night, I’m dog-sitting for my mom and Harvey, so I’m walking their four rescue Chihuahuas—Bippity, Boppity, Boo, and Cindy—along Marina Green when my phone pings. It’s a message from Leighton. I know I should focus on these tiny terrors, let them get their walk, but every fiber in me wants to check. With each ounce of self-control, I ignore it while they finish up.
The second I get home, I unclip their leashes, send them off to their heated dog beds—because of course they have heated dog beds—and finally open the message.
I was not prepared.
Holy shit, I was not prepared for this. And I need to enjoy the fuck out of it. I head over to a dark oak cabinet next to the TV I rarely watch, grab a bottle of scotch from my collection of the finest vintages, and pour two fingers. With the amber liquid in the tumbler, I return to the couch and take a long pull that I savor, feeling the good burn. Then, I open the pictures again, ready to savor them. As I look, my breath catches, a fire starting, then blazing in my chest as I scroll through the shots, each one more intense than the last.
One by one, I study every frame: the way I looked at her, the way I wanted her, the way I moved behind her, my hands brushing her arms. Then, there it is—the moment I kissed her, my hand on her throat, the trust in her gaze, and her whispered desires captured in every pixel.
I can’t take it much longer. I’m rock hard and far too aroused while my mom’s dogs watch me staring greedily at the photos. Setting down the glass on the coffee table, I replay my memories of the day, then…fuck it.
It won’t be the first time I’ve done this to thoughts of Leighton. Probably won’t be the last. I unzip my jeans, take out my aching shaft, and tug.
It’s a relief, but only for a few seconds. I breathe out hard, giving in to the lust that grips me, the want I feel for her…my coach’s daughter.
For a few seconds, I freeze over those words—coach’s daughter.
Don’t go there again. Get it together. Stop fucking thinking of her.
But the dick is sometimes stronger than the will.
I ignore that voice because it doesn’t matter what I do when I’m home alone. It’s what I do when I’m with her that counts. I haven’t crossed the line again. And baggage or no baggage, we’re not going to be a thing. But her admission that she looks at the pictures too? It’s what I wanted. It’s what I needed. It’s also all I can have of her.
So what’s the harm in giving in tonight? Faster, my fist shuttling harder, I jerk to the pictures of Leighton melting in my arms. To her asking for what she needed. To me giving it to her.
To us knowing what was happening between us that one perfect day.
But really, I just need to finally, fucking finally, get that day out of my system.
That’s easy enough for the next couple months since I don’t see her. I don’t run into her at any more promo events. I don’t bump into her at High Kick, though I definitely try. But I’m never there when she’s taking her pictures for the week. I don’t spot her at any games. She doesn’t text me again.
I don’t text her.
Impressive, I know.
I keep busy with hockey of course, and geocaching with a local club of fellow cachers, and taking some classes at a local university when I have free time. I’ve always liked school, and I try to take a new class every few years, usually in psychology or something related. My teammates don’t call me The Professor for nothing. In January, I enter the Annual Win a Date With a Player auction, along with Asher, who’s determined to go for the highest bid to keep his streak alive. I’ve done this event since I joined the team. The proceeds go to local nonprofits—animal rescues, food drives, and our team’s support for libraries.