Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I’ve done the one thing I never thought I would—leave the competitive skating world behind in the rearview mirror.
It hasn’t been easy.
Especially when the person buried in my past no longer wants to stay there.
Ever since stepping foot on campus, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid the hockey players that strut around like they’re God’s gift to the female species.
There’s a reason for that.
My father is Reed Philips, head coach for the Western Wildcats. The number one rule in our house has always been that I keep a healthy distance from his players.
That’s never been a problem.
And it’s not necessarily one now.
Except…
I’ve just had a major run in with Hayes Van Doren.
One that includes me walking in on him freshly showered in the locker room and him thinking I was there to deliver a special birthday present by dropping to my knees.
Oh, trust me…he got a treat all right.
One that left him singing soprano.
I might have spent most of this year flying under the radar where Hayes is concerned, but that’s no longer possible.
Everywhere I go, there he is.
Forcing his way into my life.
He’s a complication I don’t need.
Or want.
Except…
He’s decided to change my mind about that.
The question is—will I let him?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
Ava
Unknown number:
We need to talk.
Those four words hit me like a punch to the gut, and the ground drops from beneath my feet. My sneakers squeak against the tile floor of the corridor as I stumble to a halt. As I stare at my phone, the words blur before my eyes.
I really thought this nightmare was finally over.
It takes a handful of seconds for my brain to play mental catch up as my fingers hover over the keyboard, and I fight the urge to smash my cell against the wall. It’s so tempting to ignore the message and pretend I never saw it.
How the hell did he get my number?
Again.
Every time I change my digits, he figures it out. My heart slams against my ribcage as a potent concoction of anger and frustration surges through me like wildfire.
Screw him.
That’s all it takes for something to snap inside me as I stab out a response.
Me:
Don’t contact me again. There’s nothing more for us to say.
Nausea roils in my stomach as I hit send.
Why won’t he leave me alone? It’s been more than a year.
Before I can take a steady breath, my phone vibrates with another message.
Unknown number:
We both know that’s not true. There’s quite a bit to say. In person.
No.
There’s no way that will ever happen.
This time, I don’t bother with a reply.
My thumb lingers for half a second before I block the number.
Not that it’ll do any good.
With a frustrated huff, I pocket the phone in my jacket and shove through the door into the men’s locker room.
Transferring to Western was supposed to be a fresh start. That’s one of the reasons Dad took the head coaching position last summer—to give all of us a break from the mess back home.
It seems like no matter how far or fast I run, some things refuse to stay buried in the past.
The second I step inside, I’m hit by a wave of steamy moisture, thick in the air with the undeniable scent of sweat, wet gear, and damp towels.
My nose scrunches.
You’d think I’d be used to it by now, having spent my whole life around hockey teams.
But men’s locker rooms?
They always reek.
I hesitate inside the door, cocking my head and listening for signs of life. The steady drip of water echoing from the showers is the only sound that can be heard.
Thank God.
Dad would totally lose it if I walked in on the guys undressing.
For as long as I can remember, there’s been a strict no-hockey-players rule in place. It was never a problem because I was too busy skating to notice them.
I’ve been on the ice since I was four. After one of my coaches said I was a natural, my parents signed me up for private lessons. The next thing I knew, we were traveling all over the country. By the time I was twelve, we had uprooted our entire lives so I could train with a world-renowned coach. My life revolved around the rink—practice, competition—and little else.
Until last year.
I shove that depressing thought away as I swing around the corner and stumble to a halt. My eyes widen as I take in the naked guy with his back turned toward me. There’s not even a towel slung around his waist to shield the view.
Somewhere in the back of my brain, I realize I should retreat or, at the very least, stop staring, but I can’t pull my attention away from the sight in front of me. His back is broad and rippling with muscles, each one perfectly defined.
Before I can stop myself, my gaze dips lower. His ass is just as finely sculpted as the rest of him.
Tight.
Perfect.
Damn.
I suck in a harsh breath and almost choke. A coughing fit is the last thing I need right now. The noise is enough to alert him to my presence, and he swings around.
His green eyes lock on mine, and there’s a beat of silence as the air thickens with something I can’t quite place.
My heartbeat stutters.
And still, he doesn’t bother to cover himself. His eyes scan me lazily, as if he catches girls sneaking into the locker room and eating up his naked body with their gazes all the time.
Who knows, maybe he does.
His gaze never wavers as he lifts the white towel to dry his damp hair. The guy is completely unfazed that he’s stark naked, dripping, and on full display.
If only my reaction were just as casual.
Heat floods my cheeks, as if I’m the one who’s been caught without a stitch of clothing.
My eyes do the exact opposite of what I tell them to. They should be locked on his face, but no, they take a slow and thorough tour of his body. First, the broad expanse of his chest—all hard muscle and glistening with droplets of water.
My mouth turns cottony as my attention drifts lower. I can’t help but catalogue the ridges of his abs. There are eight of them, by the way. I swear, he’s got abs on top of abs. It would be difficult not to appreciate every contour.