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)
“Eh. He has fun at my expense. This was my turn.” His gaze flicks toward me quickly before he straightens to watch the game again.
But I can’t concentrate. This is the first of Foster’s pro games I’ve managed to get to watch live, but it can’t even compete with the man sitting next to me. I keep tracing the lines of his face, wondering, maybe hoping.
Trying to get my heart to settle.
The period ends, and I have to check the scoreboard because I have no idea what’s been happening on the ice.
Neither team has scored.
Good. I haven’t missed much, then.
Cohen leans over. Again. Into my space. “You two want anything? Food? Drink?”
“Beer,” I say. Maybe a drink will help calm me the hell down.
“I’m good,” Zach says.
As soon as Cohen, Beck, and Jacobs leave, I turn to my best friend.
“What’s Cohen’s first name?”
“Sorry?”
“You, Mr. I Refuse to Call People by Their Last Names. What’s Cohen’s first name?”
“Why?”
“Curious.” Do I feel bad about not talking to Zach about everything going on with me this year? A little, but he said he needed space. I’ve given it to him. Plus, now that he’s with my brother, there are things I don’t want to tell him. Not that he’d out me or anything like that, but I know Zach, and asking him to keep it a secret from Foster would eat at him.
“I don’t actually know. We don’t really hang out.”
Fuck.
My knees bounce as I take out my phone and pull up the CU website and navigate to the hockey team.
There it is in black and white.
Richard Cohen.
Holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck.
That ninety-nine percent suspicion slots over to a hundred as I sit here in stunned silence.
It’s too loud to talk at the game, and when we finally head to the post-game celebrations on the top floor of our hotel, I can’t catch Cohen alone. I hang with Jacobs and Beck at the side of the party while Foster and Zach are with the team, and Cohen fanboys all over his favorite players.
I’m counting down the minutes until we can head down to our room, when Foster appears and asks if we want to go somewhere quieter.
That would be a hell yes.
Which is how we find ourselves in the hotel bar, crammed around a small table. It’s a lot quieter here, and while I was originally apprehensive about being here with two couples and a spare, the moment couldn’t be more perfect. Jacobs and Beck are laughing about something together, and Zach is sitting in Foster’s lap.
The way those two are looking at each other …
Yeah, I get it. I get why he wants to move. It’ll never not hurt, but I have to hold out hope that maybe someday I’ll have that too.
My stare cuts to Cohen.
All the hope and excitement that’s building inside me is going to crash in spectacular fashion if I’m wrong. The more I look at him, the more attracted to him I am, and every time I hear his voice, I’m replaying it over the messages we’ve shared.
I’m not worried about the connection holding anymore, because it’s stronger than ever, but I really need to stop these thoughts until I’m sure.
The only way to be certain is to hear it from him and confront him …
Shit.
I down my beer.
It doesn’t help.
Somehow I’m present for the conversations around me, but I have no damn recollection of what’s talked about.
My brain is a constant loop of Cohen, Cohen, Cohen, please-be-him-or-I-might-actually-die, Cohen.
I just need to say it …
I’m Einstein.
Two words.
So simple.
If he’s not Richie, he’ll probably pass it off as a stupid drunken statement.
Totally fine.
So why am I sweating?
This bar is getting stifling, too small. The others are sitting way too close, and as much as I want to blurt it out now, I also don’t want to have this conversation in front of them.
Yeah, uh-huh. That’s why.
I’ve never wanted a year to be over so desperately.
The countdown to midnight finally begins, and Jacobs pulls Beck into his lap. My heart sinks a little as I watch them together, whispering quietly, sharing a private moment when they’re surrounded by so much chaos.
Then I look at Cohen. His chin is in his hand, and he looks miserable as he slides his phone from his pocket to check the display. There are a few messages there, but not the one he wants. I know, because I never replied to that question mark.
The whole bar shouts, “Happy New Year!” in unison, and people toast and kiss while Cohen and I share a tight smile.
“Happy New Year,” I say.
“You too.” He pushes back from the table. “I’m getting some more drinks.”
No.
He buys doubles for everyone, and we end up drinking way later into the night than I’d hoped. The whole time I’m silently begging for someone to call it a night, but the rounds keep coming. I make sure not to get trashed, and I keep an eye out that Cohen is doing the same, because if I don’t get to confront him as soon as we get back to the room, I think I’m going to explode.