Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
These are my thoughts as I shower and dress for work. Eric summons a rideshare, and I roll my travel bag to the front door of his apartment. He saunters out a few minutes later wearing his game day suit, and my stomach does the same flip it’s always done when I catch a glimpse of him.
Yup. Still going strong.
I reach for the doorknob, but he stops me. “Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Whoops.”
He steps into my personal space, takes my face between his fingertips, and kisses me sweetly. “There. That’s all I get before tonight.”
This is also part of our new tradition—the kiss at the door. “One more,” I whisper. “For luck.” Then I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him again.
Like I said, we’ve gotten very good at this secret dating thing.
Three hours later, Zoe and I wait to board the team jet until all the players have gotten on.
“This is so exciting,” she says, elbowing me. “Baby’s first road trip.”
“This is my eleventy billionth road trip, you dingus.”
“But not as half a couple,” she insists.
I elbow her back. “Shut your pie hole!”
She rolls her eyes because, unless the gate agent is super interested in my love life, there’s really nobody who can hear us. “Need any tips on how to sneak into his hotel room tonight? Sometimes I carry the ice bucket with me as a decoy.”
“I’m sure everyone is fooled.”
“It’s more for plausible deniability.” She grins. “If you think about it, the team is wasting some serious cash on our hotel room now. It will just be sitting there, empty.”
“I always get work done in our hotel room,” I point out. “It’s my sanctuary. I discovered a long time ago that Sharp will never knock on my room door, because it’s a bad look for him.”
“Wait.” She follows me onto the Jetway. “You two snarl at each other like lions, but he’s afraid to knock politely on your door?”
“Accurate.”
“I will never understand that man,” Zoe says. “Every time I have him written off as a hopeless asshole, he reveals a shred of decency.”
“That’s not decency—that’s just self-preservation. He has his rules, and I have mine. I can handle him so long as he doesn’t find out about… you know. I have to maintain the illusion that I respect the hierarchy.”
“Hmm,” she says. “I get that you like your privacy. But I hope you don’t waste too much energy worrying about this. He was really decent when Chase and I told him that we’re a couple.”
“He was,” I agree. “But you and I aren’t the same in his eyes. Your coaching was a huge contributor to our deep playoff run last year. Plus, the Legends fandom loves you almost as much as the players. I, on the other hand, am completely replaceable.”
“Not true!” she yelps as we step onto the jet. “That’s a hill I’m willing to die on.”
“Let’s hope you don’t have to. Now let’s change the subject. Too many ears on this jet.”
“Fine,” she says. “Will this be one of those trips where we get to sneak out for a pedicure?”
“Ooh, maybe.” I mentally tick through my schedule as I snag us a pair of seats. “Before gametime tonight, maybe? I mean—we’d be doing the team a favor, right? My nails are the wrong color.” I glance down at the peach-toned pedicure that’s poking out of my open-toed shoes. Zoe and I like to wear Legends blue and red during the season.
“Cool,” she says. “I’ll try to find us a salon.”
Hours later, watching from our seats in Philly’s press box, Zoe and I are sporting our new pedicures in Legends blue, just like we’d planned. And since the team has two colors, I chose a shimmery red polish for my manicure, because I don’t believe in tempting fate.
Especially right now, with the game tied 2–2. The Legends have dominated possession, though, and Philly looks tired.
Eric moves the puck up the center for another try, and my leg jiggles with unrestrained anxiety. “Hang on, b—!” The word baby almost comes out of my mouth, but I fix it quickly. “Boys!”
On my right, Zoe snorts. On my left, though, Steve Sailor—the team publicist—doesn’t notice. He’s leaning forward in his seat. “Cap is gonna get this done,” he mutters. “He’s locked in.”
It’s true, too. Tonight, he’s everywhere—stealing pucks, making crisp passes, and generally making life difficult for our opponents. And I’ve watched him play hockey hundreds of times before—sometimes from the press box and sometimes on television.
Tonight, though, I’m three times as nervous as usual. Now that we’re together—really together—all my reactions are completely different. Every hit he takes makes my stomach clench. Every beautiful play he makes fills me with fierce pride that I have to work to keep off my face.
“Here we go,” Zoe says, elbowing me as the play develops below.