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)
“If you say so.”
She retrieves her phone off the asphalt roof. “You chose well,” she says. “It has a really strong beat and lots of slow glide on the guitar. It’s just perfect for skating.”
She presses play and then leans her head on his shoulder while Chris Isaak sings about his horribly broken heart.
He’s happily inhaling the scent of her hair when his phone rings rudely and his father’s number pops up on the screen. He sends it to voicemail. But then the asshole calls again.
“Excuse me a sec,” he apologizes. Then he crosses the rooftop before accepting the third call. “Hey, I’m here. Is something wrong?”
“You bet, fucker,” his dad slurs. “What did you do with my Sawzall? You sell it?”
Chase screws his eyes closed. “I didn’t sell anything,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. You’re the only one who sells off tools to buy whiskey.
“You owe me fifty bucks,” his father says.
“I gave you fifty bucks,” he says firmly. “The day before I left for my summer job, I gave you two twenties and a ten.”
“Well, it’s not here,” the old man sneers. “Looked in your room. Big mess. Might have a bonfire if I can’t find my fifty bucks.”
His chest goes tight. There’s nothing of value in his room, because he’s smarter than that. But his photo albums are there, and his team pennant. And every last memory he has of his mother.
“Fifty bucks, Chasey,” his father slurs. “You don’t cheat family.”
He never should have answered the phone. It’s really killing his high. “I might be able to Venmo you forty bucks,” he says. “I’d have to check my bank balance.” He knows better than to make it sound too easy.
“By tomorrow,” his father says, as if this were some kind of real negotiation.
“Fine. Later.” He ends the call and looks up to see Zoe watching him from her perch on the chair, worry in her eyes.
“Let’s have some guacamole,” he says. “It’s time for snacks.”
Then he finds his smile and pastes it back on again. He never wants Zoe to know the truth—that some days it’s hard fucking work being this laid-back and happy.
Zoe reaches for the cooler with a contented sigh, and he feels the tension drain out of his body again.
He sits down beside her and restarts the song. Zoe passes him the chips, and he takes one. “Cheers,” he says, tapping his chip against hers.
She smiles, and everything is right with the world.
Chapter 17
Present Day
Steve Sailor doesn’t mess around. Within hours, he’s invited a string of journalists to sit in on a coaching session for the following Tuesday—merely four days after our war room meeting. Meanwhile, I keep replaying my curbside conversation with Chase in my mind and cringing.
I was desperate, and somehow I made it about me. And now I have a vulnerability hangover.
What must he be thinking?
I’m still wondering on Tuesday morning as I stand in the staff bathroom while I hastily apply lipstick. For the photographs, I tell myself. Not because I care how I look in front of Chase.
The door flies open and Darcy bops in. “Ooh! Makeup. Nice color.”
“Is it too much?”
“No way! You look smashing.”
I glance down at my matching red-and-blue outfit. “Nobody looks smashing in Legends workout gear.”
“You absolutely do,” she argues. “And with your hair blown smooth? You look like Sporty Barbie. The PR guy is going to pee himself with excitement over these photographs.”
“He’d better,” I grumble.
“You’re just nervous,” Darcy says gently. “But this will be over in an hour.”
“That’s the problem. I have one hour to make myself look competent, make Chase look friendly, and also fix his skating. I did this to myself.”
She smiles. “Sailor is ready for you. And he wanted me to give you this.”
It’s a cute little silver whistle on a Legends lanyard. “I’m not using that. Whistles are for dogs.”
“Just wear it, Sporty Barbie. It will make his shallow little heart happy.”
Having no choice, I drop it over my head.
“Now get out there already,” she says. “Chase already greeted the journalists.”
“Okay,” I say with one last glance in the mirror. The only thing more stressful than a coaching session with Chase is a coaching session with Chase plus ten spectators.
Wait, make that twenty. As I glide out onto the ice, I’m startled by the crowd of people lining one wall of the big practice rink, most of them men. The photographers’ cameras have cartoonishly long lenses on them, too, as if they’re here to photograph the Kentucky Derby.
Good grief. A coaching session with me is not interesting enough for all that.
“Zoe!” Steve Sailor waves me over to the side. “Come introduce yourself. They already got to shake Chase’s hand.”
I look over my shoulder and see Chase, also dressed in Legends workout gear, crisscrossing smoothly between the face-off circles. Meanwhile, he’s got his stick in his ungloved hand, and he’s dribbling the puck in quick strokes, like a magician.