Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“Can I leave the bright PJs at your house?” I ask when I emerge into the living area. “Either that or I need to borrow a tote bag to make my walk of shame less embarrassing.”
“Leave them,” he says, buttering our toast. “We can work on our choreography again later this week.”
“You mean…‘Wicked Game’?”
He smiles over the butter dish. “Nope. But that too if you want.”
I locate my phone on the way to the kitchen. Then I take one look at the screen and curse. “God damn it! Moreau finally made an appointment with me, and it’s in…” I check the time. “Forty minutes!”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
I groan. “Yes and no. But the timing is a new kind of fuck you. He made this appointment three minutes ago. He’s hoping I’ll stand him up. Hell—I’ve got to get out of here.”
“No, wait,” he says, catching me before I can run for the door and aiming me at a barstool. “Eat your toast. I’m calling a car for my lunch date. We can run you home to change, and then we’ll drop you off at the rink on my way.”
“Are you sure?”
“Totally sure. Has Moreau been giving you a lot of trouble?”
I sit down. “No and yes. He’s been a no-show, which is rude. But so have other players.”
“His skating is abominable,” Chase says, giving me a look that’s comically appalled. “Dude should have been a soccer player instead.”
“Trust me, I’ve noticed. Give me the dirt on Moreau. Is he a dick? Or am I just impatient with bad skaters?”
Chase grins. “A little of both? He came to the Legends at the trade deadline last season. He’s probably been the worst skater on the team his whole life. And every skating coach makes him tense.”
“Hmm.” I need to find a way around that. “What’s he good at?”
Chase refills our juice glasses. “He’s a hard hitter. Willing to sacrifice his body. Above-average stamina. Kinda like me.” He winks. “Don’t take any shit from Moreau, though. And if he does anything weird—like anything—I want to hear about it. We’ve got to figure out who your bully is.”
“Yeah, fine. But it could be anyone, and my gut says that Moreau is just a garden-variety dickhead. More ego than emotional range. I’ll be fine, though. Tolerating assholes is my superpower.”
“But, Zoe…” Chase passes me a plate. “Aren’t you always telling the guys that their superpower is also their greatest weakness? What if tolerating assholes isn’t working for you anymore? Maybe it’s time to swing back.”
I blink up at him. “You make a few good points.” Then I look down at the plate, which contains both pieces of toast and a generous amount of butter. “Where’s your plate?”
“That’s all for you!” he calls as he disappears into the bedroom with his coffee mug. “I gotta change for lunch!”
I consider arguing. But then I eat both pieces of toast instead.
Chase’s chauffeured car gets me home to change and back to the rink in plenty of time.
“You coming to the game tonight?” he asks as we slow to a stop at the curb.
“Of course.” I reach toward the door and swing it open.
He catches my hand before I can exit the car. “Where’s my goodbye kiss?”
“Here?” I gasp. “Nobody can see us together, Chase. Not until they offer me a contract for next year.”
He frowns, and I expect him to argue. To tell me it shouldn’t matter. “Okay. I get it. Close the door again. Just for a second.”
I do it.
He kisses me quickly, but my heart practically detonates anyway. Because the smile I get is warm enough to heat the tristate area. “Now knock ’em dead,” he says. “And call me after.”
“I plan on it.”
Three minutes later I trot into the equipment room. “Hey, Bernie! Were you able to fix my skates?”
“You bet,” he says, looking up from the grinder. “And I haven’t let them out of my sight ever since. I even took them to breakfast with me. Here.” He leans down and picks up a skate bag from the floor, which he unzips to reveal my skates. “I’m so sorry about yesterday.”
“Not your fault,” I insist.
When I reach the practice rink, Moreau is already there. He’s doing laps and scowling. He doesn’t even glance my way, which might annoy me if I didn’t see his attitude for what it really is—fear.
I plaster on a bright smile. “Morning, Jean-Luc,” I call.
He slows down and skates toward me, his expression already sour. “You are late,” he says in his French Canadian accent, his tone dripping with disdain.
“I’m actually three minutes early,” I reply lightly, crouching to pull a cone from my bag. “But I appreciate your enthusiasm.”
His scowl deepens. “What is it you want to fix about me today, Coach?”
That’s the thing about players like Moreau—they assume every coaching session is an insult, as if admitting they have flaws might turn them mortal. I don’t take the bait.