Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
I confirm the next appointment, then head to the school.
“Are you kidding me? That was holding!” I shout from our sweet seats on the fifty-yard line. “Are you paid by the other team?”
The ref doesn’t answer me, of course. He just stalks down the sidelines, completely ignoring the way the Dallas team’s offensive lineman tackled the pass rusher—and seeming oblivious, too, to the sea of boos swelling around him.
Like the stocky Renegades fan in front of us, who sloshes his beer as he throws his hands up in frustration.
I snap my gaze to Tyler, but he’s already on his feet, a fierce energy radiating from him. “C’mon! That’s the second time you missed a holding call,” Tyler shouts to the field, chastising the officials.
The stocky guy in the Slater jersey (repping the Renegades quarterback Holden Slater) in front of us spins around. “Right? These refs suck,” he says.
“They’re worse than the refs who suck up to the entire Kansas City team,” I put in, pointing angrily past the sea of blue and orange jerseys to the guys in black and white who are ruining this game.
Tyler scoffs, then snorts.
Oh. Did I just say that out loud?
The guy in front of us lifts his nearly empty beer cup in approval. “You called it. The refs are obsessed with KC.”
Tyler looks at me, eyebrows arching.
“Sorry, was that rude?” I deadpan.
Tyler just laughs. “To whom? The refs? Nope.” His eyes glint as he leans in closer, his shoulder bumping mine.
When we’re seated he slips his hand across my lap and into the pocket of my sweatshirt—it’s a Sea Dogs hoodie, the one he gave me before the team’s first home game of the season.
His fingers find mine inside the pocket, and he threads them together, sending sparks all over my skin.
Then, he shifts closer, his beard whisking across my cheek, his mouth near my ear. “Want to debate the refs some more?”
A shiver runs through me. Not from the words, but from his tone—low and raspy. “Is that code for something?” I ask.
“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, then sneaks in a nibble on my earlobe before pulling back, turning his attention to the field.
“C’mon, D! Let’s do this!” he shouts as the Renegades defense holds off the Dallas offense, forcing a punt.
He cheers, and a few minutes later, the offense is back on the field, the team’s quarterback leading the charge.
“C’mon, Slater! You better throw a football better than you hit a golf ball,” he says.
I arch a brow, then whistle in appreciation. “Hello, trash talker. What was that about?”
“He’s one of the guys I played golf with over the summer. We were teammates in that tournament in Cozy Valley.”
“Does that mean you stink at golf too?” I feign innocence, as if I don’t know that I’m pushing his buttons, but I’m secretly eating up these details about Tyler’s life outside of hockey.
“Hey, watch it,” he says with a smile that tells me he likes my teasing.
“Do you guys need to start a club for pro athletes who flounder on the links?”
“Damn, woman, you pull no punches.”
“And you wouldn’t want it any other way,” I say, feeling bold. Because he likes my style of bold.
Briefly, though, I wonder—am I doing such a good job at being a super nanny? Does a super nanny flirt with her boss like this?
But then I shove those thoughts away. I’m not nannying right now, and we’re just having fun.
Just in case, I shift gears when there’s a break in the action. “Do you go there a lot to see your friends?” I ask.
“I do, yeah. Holden lives there with his kids. Some of my other dad friends do too,” he adds. “We get together whenever we can for bocce ball and other lawn games.”
“A single dads club?”
He seems to give that some thought. “You know…maybe it is.”
I lean closer. “Cheeseball.”
“Watch it, Snow,” he warns, but he’s still squeezing my hand. He shoots me a look—the kind that lingers just a second too long. The kind that feels like it should’ve happened months ago.
And this? This feels perfect in a new way.
Like a perfect date.
Especially when the Renegades pull out a win, and as we make our way out of the packed stadium—along with the spilled popcorn, the beers, and the happy fans—Tyler asks if I want to meet Holden.
“Sure, but what if I think he’s cuter than you?” I ask, all innocent.
His eyes darken, and he tugs me toward him. “I’ll have to spank you for that.”
“Promise?”
His expression turns feral.
And we’re not heading toward the authorized personnel area any longer.
It takes forever to get out of the stadium lot, and once we do, there’s a whole city to traverse. But as we go, Tyler keeps one hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh.
Sliding it up and down, up and down.