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)
All those complications should be reason enough to resist him. Really, they should.
By the time the marketing meeting starts, I’ve managed to finish the batch of photos. Everly, Zaire, Chanda, and Jenna gather around the conference table, and Chanda briskly runs through the week’s schedule. It’s all business until she glances at me with a grin.
“And,” she says, excitement spilling into her tone, “the pics of the Sea Dogs with rescue pups were so popular we’ve decided to do a team calendar this year with Little Friends. And thanks to the fan vote on last night’s picture…” She raises her eyebrows my way. “Miles, in his suit covered in puppies, was voted the cover model. Can you take on the project of shooting the calendar?”
Another project on top of everything else? But I’m not saying no to something that I made happen. I took that picture because I had a feeling it’d be social gold. And, I was right. That’s enormously gratifying. And this project feels meaningful, no matter how busy it makes me. It’s a chance to grow my brand, to prove I can handle work like this at a high level. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll help me keep the studio afloat. Isn’t that what a businesswoman does anyway? Adapt, expand, innovate. Grow. Like Melissa with her bustier cookies.
“Absolutely,” I say as a part of me wonders if this is the start of more work with the team. And what if this turns into regular freelance assignments? If I leaned more into team photography, would that make our forbidden romance even more complicated? And more dangerous?
You’re not having a forbidden romance, girl. You had one sexy day. That’s all.
That’s what I tell myself. Except, the math isn’t mathing. I had two sexy days. But that doesn’t turn this thing into a relationship.
And besides, the calendar can help with my bigger goal: to make it on my own.
31
THE THING ABOUT ME
Miles
The thing about the Montreal team is they swear—and chirp—mostly in French.
The thing about me? I understand most of it.
Montreal’s Armand Delacroix is one of the most aggressive forwards in the league—with his game play and his mouth. When Bishop strips the puck from him and races down the ice with it, Delacroix mutters something wildly insulting under his breath, but I ignore it. For now.
By the third period, though, Delacroix’s chirps have gone from mildly annoying to flat-out nasty. The French equivalent of “Your mom sucks my dick” reaches my ears just as Bishop spins around, his voice sharp and cutting.
“Maybe learn to play better, fuckwad,” Bishop fires back, his tone dripping with venom though he doesn’t know exactly what Delacroix’s said.
Our opponent’s face darkens, and for a second, I think he’s going to peel off his gloves and throw down. It’s hockey—fighting’s part of the game, and sometimes the guys just need to settle it.
But Bishop doesn’t give him the chance. Skates scraping against the ice, he snags the puck from Delacroix again—a clean, beautiful steal—and flips it to Bryant. Bryant tears down the ice and slams the puck into the net.
I pump a fist in celebration, and Bishop does the same, smacking gloves with Bryant.
As we hop over the boards for a line change, Delacroix skates by our bench and mutters, just loud enough for a few of us to catch, “I’m seeing her tonight.”
I snap my head toward him, my voice clipped. “Enough with the moms.”
Delacroix raises an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, like he didn’t expect me to understand him.
Coach peers down the bench at the commotion while Bishop glances my way, a confused frown creasing his forehead. “He’s saying mom shit?”
“Of course he is,” I say, waving it off as I clap Bishop on the padded shoulder. “Ignore it.”
But Bishop doesn’t look like he’s planning to ignore anything. His jaw is tight, and he’s gripping his stick like he’s imagining snapping it in half—or over Delacroix’s head.
“Fuck him,” Bishop growls, low and dangerous.
I lean in closer, keeping my voice calm. “Seriously. Ignore him. You start something, you’re getting a penalty. Coach hates that shit. Don’t give Delacroix the satisfaction.”
Bishop lets out a noise somewhere between a growl and a huff, like a bull at the gates, ready to charge.
But when he’s back on the ice for the next line shift, he stays cool. Delacroix keeps chirping, upping the ante with smirks and jabs, but Bishop doesn’t take the bait. He skates hard, clean, and focused, ignoring the hell out of the French barbs.
And when Bishop strips Delacroix of the puck one more time and helps set me up for a goal, I can’t help but grin.
The scoreboard’s doing all the talking now.
“What was Delacroix saying to Bishop?”
The question comes from a podcaster. His phone’s thrust forward and he’s recording every word.