Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Mr. Hockey God
How was your day?
Me
I survived. I’m not going to ask how yours was. I saw the score.
Mr. Hockey God
It sucked monkey balls.
I send him a meme of a monkey with a tennis ball in his mouth. A few moments later he texts back
Mr. Hockey God
I can’t wait until Friday.
Me
Me too.
Mr. Hockey God
What kind of movies do you like?
The sudden change in topic makes my head spin.
Me
Why?
Mr. Hockey God
Because I want to plan for our date.
Me
70’s and 80’s slasher movies are my favorite followed closely by modern low budget horror movies.
Mr. Hockey God
I knew you were perfect.
Me
Don’t tell me you like horror movies.
Mr. Hockey God
I love a good slasher flick.
Me
Good to know.
Mr. Hockey God
Goodnight, trouble girl.
Me
Night, hockey boy.
Thursday night, I can’t resist the urge to watch the hockey game. The announcers keep talking about Mick’s “veteran presence,” his “leadership on and off the ice,” all the things that make him a hockey golden boy.
I find myself leaning forward when he takes a hit, my body tensing, like I could absorb some of the impact through the screen. I only exhale when he’s up and moving, and when the Knights score, I let out a sound that’s half laugh, half groan.
As the game ends, I’m scrolling Instagram when the phone vibrates against my thigh.
Mr. Hockey God
My games are over. I can’t wait until tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at six pm.
I stare at the screen for a moment. Even though things are going great with Mick, I always leave myself a way out. What can I say? Old habits die hard.
Me
I’ll drive myself. Send over your address.
Mr. Hockey God
I’m not even going to argue. I know it’s a wasted effort.
Me
You catch on quickly. See you at six.
Mr. Hockey God
Can’t wait. Dress casual.
Me
Do jeans and sweatshirt work?
Mr. Hockey God
Jeans and sweatshirt or nothing at all. Either works for me.
I laugh as another message comes through. This time it’s his address and I’m not surprised to see he lives in a fancy apartment building in downtown Seattle.
Friday afternoon, I pace my apartment trying to work off some of the excess energy flowing through me. Darn it. It’s been the longest day in the history of long days.
I finally decide to take a long, scalding hot shower. Even though I told myself I wouldn’t do this, I take extra time buffing and scrubbing and even shave my legs.
Then I dry off and pull my wet hair up in towel before adding a thick layer of moisturizer. Next, I yank on my best jeans and a pale blue sweatshirt that’s so soft, it’s basically emotional support clothing. I pull the towel off my head and stare at my reflection. My hair looks like I spent the night wrestling a tornado. Ouch. I brush it out and spend the next twenty minutes blow-drying it. Once it’s mostly dry, I twist it into a high ponytail and let the curls riot however they want.
At five thirty, I’m sliding behind the wheel of my little blue compact, knuckles white on the steering wheel. I pull out my phone, punch in his address, and the maps app immediately starts giving me directions in the crisp, male British voice I chose.
Seattle’s outside, wet and sullen, but there’s nothing gloomy about the fizzing energy in my veins. My pulse is straight-up out of control.
I crank the heat, crank my music, and head out.
CHAPTER SIX
MICK
I hear the elevator’s mechanical sigh reaching my floor. I take a deep breath and walk over to the door. Fuck. It’s been the longest goddamn week of my life. There’s a pause, then the knock and I open the door. Fuck. She’s stunning.
She’s wearing a blue sweatshirt and faded blue jeans that hug every line of her curvy legs. Her hair is up in a riot of curls, and her face is naked except for a swipe of something on her lips that’s the exact color of ripe peaches. I want to lick it off her.
“Hi, trouble.” I reach for her soft hand. “About time you got here.”
“Hey,” she says, all faux-casual, but I can see the way her pulse jumps at her throat. “I’m five minutes early.”
“It’s been eight thousand, two hundred and few minutes since I last saw you.” I step back, give her room. “Way too fucking long.”
“I can’t believe you calculated that.” She says as she brushes past me. The smell of her—lavender and something I can never quite name—hits me dead center. My brain short-circuits. I have to fist both hands to my sides to keep from just pulling her in and mauling her right there.
“I had to do something to occupy my time.” I tell her as she looks around my apartment.
“Nice place.” She says it with a smirk, like she’s expecting sterile hockey-boy chic.
“Make yourself at home.” I watch her scan the room, taking in the exposed concrete, the minimal everything.