Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I skate in a figure eight, drawing it out nice and slow. I haven’t done this, skating for fun, in a while. It feels good. “If you come to a game, you might enjoy it.”
“I don’t know the rules.”
“I can teach you the rules.” I motion her forward. “Come on out here.”
She stares at me, mouth slightly open. “No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have skates.”
“Don’t need skates.”
She looks around helplessly. “My seven-year-old self is seriously panicking right now. I’ll fall.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll keep you up.” I open the door and beckon to her. She puts her camera down on the bench, and I take her hand and lead her out onto the ice.
Her feet slip out from under her a few times, but it doesn’t matter because I keep my arm around her waist. As I walk her out to the center line, she clings close to me, and I can’t say I mind.
“I’ve got you. See, that’s not so bad, is it?”
“I guess it’s okay.”
We’re nearly at the center and I slowly start to let her go.
“No,” she cries, then lets out a sudden yelp as her feet slip out from under her.
I catch her. “Relax. We’re in the neutral zone. Nothing bad happens here.”
“Stop being funny and don’t let me go again, Eric.”
I chuckle but do as she says, holding onto her as I point down the ice. “This here, between the two blue lines, is the neutral zone. The red line is center ice. Every period, we start here with a face off.”
“A face off?”
“Yep. It’s just me, or Boone, or Reece . . . but usually Reece, because he’s the best at them. The ref drops the puck and then it’s game on. We try to get the puck in the opposing goal.”
She studies the ice with concentration. It’s fucking adorable. “What are the blue lines for?”
“Well . . . you have to be in the opposing team’s zone, meaning past that blue line, in order to take a shot.”
She squints down the ice, then her eyes skip to mine. “How? You’ve got to be really good to do that while skating. I can’t even stand.”
I shrug, feeling a flash of smug male pride because of the way she’s looking at me. “It’s kind of second-nature to me.”
She shakes her head. “I still don’t get how anyone—”
“I’ll show you. Come to a game. Saturday. It’s a big one. The Thunder are tied with us for first in our division.”
“I’ll think about it. I’m down to work, but I could ask one of the other girls to take my spot.”
I begin to pull away and she lets out a chirpy little cry.
“Sorry, I was considering letting you drift on the ice until you agree, but I can’t do it. You’re too damn cute.” I tug her back to me as our eyes cling.
Sparks heat under my skin.
Her tongue darts out as she wets her lips, and I track her movements.
Kiss her, my head says, but . . .
Her breath quickens.
Something plinks overhead, one of the lights going out.
She seems to shake herself. “Um, I need some action shots of you. Can you take me back to the wall?”
“Sure.”
The rest of the time proceeds as normal. I skate, getting my exercise in as she works her magic.
After half an hour, I get back to the bench, and she’s checking her phone.
“You have enough for your portfolio?” I ask.
She looks up. “Portfolio?”
“I saw a job listing in the student center for a job in town at the paper. I’ll text it to you.”
She puts her camera away. “Oh, wow, that sounds interesting. I’ll check it out.” She grimaces. “Sorry to cut this short, but my mom texted me. I need to go.”
“Want me to go with you?”
“No,” she blurts, almost before I get the question out. She tucks a fallen lock of hair behind her ear. “She’ll just ask me a bunch of questions about you. I don’t want to put you through that.”
I unlace my skates and throw them in my locker, and we get back in my car. As I’m pulling up at her place, my phone buzzes with a text.
I plan on ignoring it, because I want to enjoy my last few minutes with Julia, but then I catch sight of the name on the display.
You’re on. Thursday morning. Hawthorne Law building. 10 a.m.
I grab the phone. What the hell?
Dread and fear grip my chest like a vise.
“Eric? What’s wrong?”
It must be written all over my face. “I just got a text from my dad. I got an interview for law school here at Hawthorne.”
“Are you kidding? That’s incredible!” She stops gushing. “Wait. Why do you look like you want to hurl?”
I’d been staring at the message, trying to think of how to respond to my dad. I glance up at her, part of me wanting to confess that I don’t know if I can hack it or if it’s what I even want.