Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Remy: I wish I were a napper. They sound delightful, but they make me more tired.
Lake: Then you’re not napping right.
Remy: There’s a right way to nap?
Lake: Yes. I can show you.
I run a hand through my hair. Do I want to take him up on that offer or is he teasing?
Remy: You’re actually offering nap lessons?
Lake: I am.
He’s so straightforward, it makes me feel wobbly in the best of ways. I’m so not used to a man like him. Blunt, confident, no bullshit.
Remy: Far be it from me to say no then.
I head to the door, feeling frothy. All from imagining…a nap? Who even am I? When did naps become flirty?
When Lake Axelrod told me he’d give me a lesson.
I picture him tugging me against him, spooning me, running his nose through my hair. The zing rushes down my chest, straight to my thighs where a sweet ache builds.
Lake: Nap lessons are a go when I return.
I’ll see him in a few more days, and I kind of can’t wait. But I also need to return to topic number one.
Remy: You listened to my podcast already?
Lake: It’s what a good boyfriend would do.
Jameson never did.
Remy: I’m not used to that.
Lake: Remy, you watch my hockey games. Of course I’m going to read, listen to, and watch what you do.
I’m warm everywhere, but I remind myself not to get caught up. This is all part of him showing me how a man should treat a woman. That’s all this is. It’s not about me per se. It’s some kind of, well, point. A point I like a lot. But a point, nonetheless.
Remy: Thank you. I appreciate it.
Lake: Besides, I was your inspo on the episode.
A blush creeps across my cheeks. He knows? I gulp then reply, coyly I hope.
Remy: Were you now?
Lake: You know I was. And now I know you like a good growl. If you’re a good girl, I’ll do it again for you.
I’m on fire, and I think I can be very, very good.
Remy: During a nap lesson?
Lake: Yes.
Maybe I’ll find out about the perfect squish of his ass then too.
19
ALWAYS TOMORROW
LAKE
The loss in Montreal chases me on the plane to Denver. It was a sloppy, lazy game, especially after we strategized for it, and especially since we should have won. We can do better. Hell, we can dominate. That’s my plan when we land in the mile-high city, when we hit the arena for morning skate, and when I line up my gear in just the right order in the locker room later for the game.
Wait. Should I switch out the shoulder pads for the elbow pads this time? Yeah, that’s a good idea. Best to break this losing streak before it even becomes one. I move them around in front of my stall.
“You’re switching things up already?” Riggs asks from his stall across from me.
“You memorized my routine. That’s sweet.”
“Yeah, it’s sweet that I’m observant,” he deadpans.
“Fair point. I’ll allow it.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“And yeah. I’m switching it up. Don’t like losing,” I say.
“Me neither,” Riggs seconds.
“Gotta do whatever it takes.”
Riggs sits back on the bench in front of his stall, his brow furrowed like he’s giving that some thought. “I hear you,” he says, then lines up his gear in the same order as mine right when Miller strides in.
His gaze swings from me to Riggs and back, adding up the evidence. “I’m in.”
As a goalie, he’s got way more gear, but he follows the same basic order and the three of us are getting ready and lacing up our skates in sync.
It’s going to be a good game. I just know it. Even though when I hit the ice, my gaze snags on a banner hanging in the rafters. One that has my last name on it. A reminder that I have a late dinner tonight. One I wish I were looking forward to.
But for now, I have a game to play, and once I’m on the ice, I’m free.
The game always clears my head.
Hockey, only hockey.
* * *
We’re down by one. That’s nothing. That’s one goal to even it, and one more to pull ahead. We’ve got this. My heart is pounding against my rib cage and my thighs are screaming as I charge down the ice, flying toward the Denver goal. I’m jostling for the puck, and I’ve almost got it. I lunge for it with my stick but wind up pulling Denver’s center with it.
Fuck my life.
The ref shoots his arm above his head and calls for a hooking penalty.
I curse up a storm as I skate toward the penalty box. The second the door closes, I rip off my helmet and slam it down.
Fuck, that was amateur hour.
I should have done better.
When I look up there’s a shot of me on the Jumbotron in the box. I’m still not used to seeing that guy with short hair looking back at me even though it’s been more than a few days now.