Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
The drive that barely takes ten minutes seems like an eternity. I get every red light, and there’s no parking spaces by the café, so I have to lap the block before I find one.
I’m flustered and my brain is a chaotic mess as I grab my phone and open ChatUp.
Richie: I’m going to ask something and I hope I don’t sound like a dick. Have you been attracted to dudes before or is this all a test to prove your ex-girlfriend wrong?
Einstein: You’re going to laugh.
Richie: It’ll make us even then.
I tug my lip between my teeth, unsure of how much to tell him. Having Emma throw my little fascination back in my face hurt at the time, but she was right about how great our sex was after watching The Witcher. It might have been the only time it was good between us. And since then, it’s made me open my eyes to a few other things in my past. My high school obsession with Supernatural and Dean Winchester. How I started dreaming about this jock guy I tutored from my freshman class.
I get out of the car and text him while I walk.
Einstein: You know the show The Witcher? Turns out I have a bit of a thing for him.
Richie: When you say ‘a thing’ …
Einstein: He turned me on, okay? I jerked off to him so much I worried I’d pull a muscle.
Richie: Technically you were pulling a muscle.
I want to point out that the penis isn’t actually a muscle, but I hold off, because I’m having fun.
Einstein: *middle finger emoji*
Richie: Hey, I get it. Henry Cavill’s hot.
I snort back a laugh.
Einstein: I’m struggling to work out how you didn’t know you’re attracted to guys.
Richie: My blinders were on, but I’m seeing the world in a whole new way now.
Einstein: Okay, first, I warn you. I look nothing like him. Unlike you (apparently) I don’t have abs. Second, it’s not the actor. It’s the character. According to my old pal Google, demi people can form connections with fictional characters easier than people. And from what I know about myself, it seems pretty accurate.
I’m worried I’ve said too much, or sound too weird, so I quickly follow the message up.
Einstein: Now if that doesn’t turn you on about me, nothing will.
The little dots appear on my screen, telling me he’s replying. I’m holding my breath, totally consumed by my phone.
So consumed—
Oof!
I slam right into someone.
I bounce back, and hands clamp down on my shoulders to steady me before I stumble over my own feet. There’s a thump of a phone hitting the ground, and as I blink the pain in my forehead away, one of Foster’s old teammates comes into vision.
Rossi?
Martin?
No, it starts with a C.
“Graceful, Cohen,” another of the hockey guys calls out from inside while giving us a thumbs up.
Ah, Cohen, then.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks, forehead lined with concern as his eyes meet mine.
“Yeah, fine.” I brush him off. “Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
His grin catches me off guard as he bends and picks his phone up off the pavement. “Me neither.” He rubs his shoulder. “You bodycheck as hard as your brother.”
Okay?
“Sorry?”
He chuckles and grabs the door to the café, holding it open. “All good. You going in here?”
“Thanks.” I pass him and catch sight of Zach sitting at a far table. Damn, he beat me here. Which means message time is over even as the thought of Richie’s waiting reply burns in my consciousness.
“Sorry again,” Cohen says, cuffing me on the shoulder as he makes his way to the counter.
I wave him off and head for my best friend.
It’s busy in here which isn’t really surprising for a Friday afternoon after class. As I make my way across the café, snippets of conversation about some big frat party reach me, and I have to hope my friend Tyson hasn’t heard about it. Even though we go to UVM, he’s made me crash too many CU parties to count.
When I reach him, Zach’s dark head is bent over his phone, and he’s wearing a little smile that reminds me so much of how I feel when I’m messaging Richie that it throws me for a second.
“How’s my brother?” I ask as I take the seat across from him.
Zach’s cheeks darken a little as he hurries to lock his phone and set it on the table. “Busy.” The earlier happiness he was radiating disappears. “Training camp has been draining. We still talk every night, but he’s so tired, and after spending the whole summer together, all this time apart …” For one wild moment, I think Zach is going to start crying on me. Please, no. But then he quickly shakes his head. “Anyway, how are you?”
I’m not sure whether to let him get away with the subject change or not. My need to fix the problem is strong, and even though I remind myself that Zach isn’t a child and this is his business, helping with stuff like this is what best friends are for. Right?