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)
“You’re there to help my sister herd the cats, work out like a beast, and stay on top of your cardio. The only real rule is not to touch the campers. They’re high school girls, no matter how hard they throw themselves at you. And for fuck’s sake, don’t touch my niece, or I’ll cut off your dick with a dull skate blade.”
“Gross, Coach. Like I’d be that stupid anyway.”
He will, however, make nice with Coach Walsh’s sister. And at some point he’ll figure out which of the girls is the young Miss Walsh, so he can be extra nice to her. He knows where his bagel is buttered.
As he passes through the doors and into the bowl-shaped arena, there’s no mistaking the vibe of the room. Campers and their parents gather in the bleachers at one end of the rink. As he strides down the wide concrete risers toward the crowd, the sound of girlish voices rises. It’s like approaching a hive of bees, all of them buzzing at once, heads bent together in shiny clusters of conversation.
The last time Chase put on figure skates, he was in middle school. By then, he’d already transferred his interest to hockey. When he was young, though, he used to accompany his mother to the rink on Saturdays, where she taught figure skating. Sometimes he helped with the cones and the music. Sometimes he skated in every group class, back to back.
In between sessions, she’d buy him treats at the snack bar. A day out with Mom was infinitely more fun than staying home at the mercy of his father’s volatile moods. You’re a waste of space was something he heard a lot, usually followed by Get out of my sight.
At the rink, though, everyone loved him. And figure skating is like riding a bike—he hasn’t forgotten how. Sometimes he still throws jumps in his hockey skates before practice, mostly to amuse his teammates and also to impress women.
That’s how he got this job. During the playoffs, Coach Walsh noticed him throwing a toe loop. The man chewed him out for fooling around, then offered him a summer job in the next breath. “Good money, easy work. All the Walshes are hard-asses, though. Consider yourself warned.”
Even in a crowd, it isn’t difficult to pick out the hard-ass in question. She’s at the center of the action, holding a clipboard and wearing a whistle as various campers and parents approach with their questions.
Besides—she looks like the female version of Coach Walsh, and that’s not really a compliment. It’s the square face and the frown lines at her mouth. They could even be twins.
Chase works his way down to her and waits patiently while somebody’s mom has an urgent word. “The EpiPen has to be on her at all times.”
Coach Walsh lifts a jaded eyebrow. “Even on the rink?”
“When she’s skating, it’s on the bench.”
“Certainly. It will be done,” Coach Pat Walsh says, scribbling something on the clipboard. Then it’s Chase’s turn, and he offers his hand. His life might be chaotic, but he knows how to pass himself off as a gentleman. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m Chase Merritt.”
She glances up with cool gray eyes and gives his hand a surprisingly firm pump. “So you’re the hockey player,” she says the way someone else would say So you’re the flesh-eating bacteria.
“Yes, ma’am.” He gives her his most obsequious smile. “Happy to wear a different pair of skates this summer, though.”
She frowns. “Read the rule book. Early is on time, and on time is late. You’re responsible for making sure your campers make it to the early sessions. No girls allowed in entryway F. For any reason. No boys allowed in entryways A through E. And no campers in your car, ever.”
“Got it,” he says, forcing another smile.
“Find your guys over there.” She hooks her thumb toward one end of the bleachers. “Oh, and put the camp T-shirt on—it stays on today and tomorrow. You’re an authority figure.”
“Right. Sure thing.”
But he’s already been dismissed, so he turns around and makes his way through the crowd to the far end of the bleachers, where eight or ten teenage boys have isolated themselves.
Versus, what, a hundred girls? The ratio would be hilarious, except that’s exactly why they’re paying Chase the big bucks. The camp teaches pairs skating, and there are never enough boys to practice the lifts. Chase is making double what he could earn anywhere else just to hoist girls in spandex and put them down again.
Best. Scam. Ever. And good for the guns, too. By the end of the summer he’ll be both rich and ripped.
He climbs over the first couple of rows of bleachers and addresses his little cohort. “Hey, dudes. My name is Chase Merritt. How’s it going?” Remembering the T-shirt, he unzips his pack and pulls out the orange monstrosity. Then he strips off his slightly sweaty gym shirt and pulls the new one over his head.