Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
“Then stand next to me, and we can commiserate together.” She has the hots for her brother’s best friend, Nolan. He’s also her boss, but anytime the two of them are near one another, you can feel the flames licking at their heels, ready to combust. I don’t know why they don’t just give in. Then again, I’m breaking my own rules, which could be a career ender—Mischa’s could mean Nolan losing his best friend and her brother.
“No kidding. Thanks for hooking us up with the suite.” I look across the lavish area. Mitch really pulled through on this being a perk of being Rowdy’s social media content creator. My friends are thoroughly enjoying the digs, and I’m glad for it.
Gavin and Gennie are practically glued at the hip on the oversized leather sofa in the center of the room. They’re whispering and cuddling like the outside world doesn’t exist. Dante and Alex are off in a corner near the catered buffet, deep in conversation. They’re murmuring to one another, drowned out by the noise from the arena below us.
“No problem. Kind of stinks the others couldn’t make it,” I say to Mischa. Dom and Cory had an engagement to attend for work. Vik is at home with Romy and her ever-growing belly as she’s getting late into her third trimester. Apparently, the Viking of a man is becoming ultra protective and wants his woman close to home and the hospital.
“It does, but you know how it goes.” There’s a forlornness to her tone of voice, one I’m coming to understand quite well. It’s not like I can shout out to the world that I’m falling desperately for the Lonestars’ enforcer, not without certain repercussions.
“I do, and I’m glad to see you all when I can. I love my job, but, man, the traveling can be intense, and having no true homebase, well, it can be tiring,” I admit for the first time to myself and aloud.
“There’s always Seattle, but something tells me Texas might be calling your name.” Leave it to Mischa to read between the lines and come to the conclusion without me having to divulge all of my secrets.
“Yeah, well, duty calls,” I say, picking up my camera and press pass off the counter. “I have to head downstairs to the rink level to grab game footage. Tell the others I’ll be back up after the first period?”
“Will do, and be careful, yeah?” Mischa calls after me, a slight protective edge coming out.
“You too,” I say over my shoulder with a wink. Her face goes crimson. Those sparks are definitely about to fly between her and Nolan.
I take the service elevator down to the ice level. The chill of the arena air hists my skin the moment the doors slide open. The tunnel is sensory overload—the smell of the rink, rubber mats, and leather mixed with the deafening roar of fifteen thousand fans. I flash my media credentials at the tunnel guards and step into my designated photographer nook right beside the penalty box, resting my heavy camera lens on the edge of the glass.
The Lonestars are already on the ice for the opening lineup, and right at the center of it all stands number 77. Rowdy looks massive in their preseason dark green and silver game jersey. His big, broad shoulders fill out the pads impossibly well, his dark hair is damp beneath his helmet, and his jaw is set with that raw instinct that makes him look like the most terrifying enforcer in the league.
The moment the referee blows the whistle and drops the puck, the game explodes into hyper-sped. For the first fifteen minutes, Rowdy plays a clean, shockingly brilliant game. He’s fast, laying heavy, clean checks along the boards that set up two major scoring opportunities for the Lonestars’ top line. I track him through my viewfinder, snapping shots of his movement, his power, and his absolutely dominance on the ice. The crowd is going wild, loving every second of the way Bouch is playing.
Then, with three minutes left in the first period, the Seattle’s resident pest of a player delivers a dirty, blindsided cross-check to our star rookie right in front of the net.
The arena collectively gasps, me included.
Before the ref can blow his whistle, Rowdy is already moving. He crosses the ice like a freight train, dropping his gloves before he hits the blue line.
Here it comes. My heart drops to my stomach. The angry outburst, the foul mouth, and worse temper that comes with a suspension and a PR nightmare.
Rowdy grabs the guy by the front of his jersey and gets in his face, talking what I can only assume is shit. Except his face isn’t red. He’s not losing his cool, which is entirely different from last season. The other guy attempts to push Rowdy away, but he holds his own. It’s not until the opponent swings his fist that “The Bouch” as his fans know him as rises to the occasion. He blocks the punch, checks him with his shoulder to the stomach, and knocks the guy to his ass. The referees break it up before it gets too bloody. And when Rowdy comes up for air, the angry expression, teeth-baring fury we all usually expect isn’t there.