Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“You know…” Jamie hands me our beers. “If you’re smart, you’ll string this fake relationship out another week.”
“God, why?”
“There’s a benefit thing. It’s black tie, which blows. But Hozier is playing.”
The beer bottle stops halfway to my mouth. “Hozier is playing? Like, live?”
“Like, yeah!” He snickers. “For three hundred guests at a thousand bucks a pop. All the players get a plus-one.”
“Can I go with Wes?”
“No fucking way,” Jamie retorts, lifting the tray off the counter. “I’m going with Wes. It’ll be the first big charity thing I attend with him. Didn’t I choose well?”
“But…I like Hozier more than you do.”
“Says who?”
“Maybe Blake would bring me as payback.” Except he doesn’t owe me any favors now. Damn. It. My life is short on fun right now, and it’s definitely short on thousand-dollar concert tickets. I freaking love Hozier, though.
“You get the inside seat,” Jamie says as we descend again toward row E.
“What? No.”
He chuckles. “Just save my eardrums this one time.”
Reluctantly, I take my seat next to Mama Riley. “Hi there,” I say with false cheer.
Her dark eyebrows lift in surprise. “JESSICA!”
My God, she’s loud. “How have you been? Lovely party you threw. I’m still thinking about that brisket.”
She beams. “Thank you! How come you’re sitting here?”
Uh-oh. Does that mean Blake and I broke up? “Well, um, sorry. These are Jamie’s seats…”
She slaps me on the back with a hand that’s shockingly large for a woman’s. “Thought you’d be in the WAGs box! Both of you!”
“These are great seats,” Jamie says, helping me out. His smile is pure amusement. “The WAGs box is fun too, though. But I’m always hungover the morning after hanging out in there. Right, Jess?”
“Um…” I don’t even know what the WAGs box is.
Luckily, the game is starting. We all rise to sing “O Canada,” which I really don’t know. But that’s okay because Mama Riley belts it loud enough for all of us. I’m approaching deafness by the last “WE STAND ON GUARD FOR THEEEEEEEEEE!”
When I turn to my brother for a shared glance, something blue catches my eye. In his ear. Jamie is wearing one of those disposable earplugs.
“Omigod, where did you get that?”
“Hmm?” he asks, passing me my dinner.
The starting lineup is announced, and when Blake’s name booms from the loudspeaker, Mama Riley cheers so loudly that I almost spill my beer.
Then the game starts, and the action is right in front of us. I’ve never seen an NHL game before, since I’m more of a football fan. But our seats are great, and the fast-moving game is addictive. Blake is pretty incredible too. He’s not as fast and slippery as Wes, but he’s just so forceful out there. I can’t even imagine what it would feel like to look up at two hundred and fifty pounds of Blake Riley charging at you for the puck.
I have an inappropriate shimmy near my goal crease just thinking about it.
If I’m honest, Wes is on a team full of startlingly attractive players. Besides Blake, there’s Eriksson, who I wouldn’t kick out of bed. And of course there’s the pretty boy Will O’Connor.
Naturally, Jamie and I cheer for Wes and Blake every time they get their sticks on the puck, but our enthusiasm is nothing compared to Mama Riley’s. Whenever her son sets foot on the ice, she lets fly a litany of violent encouragement.
“GET ’EM, BLAKEY! BEND HIS FENDERS! SINK HIS BATTLESHIP!”
I nudge Jamie. “What does that mean?”
He shakes his head, smiling. “I tune it out.”
It looks like the first period will be scoreless. But when there’s only fifty seconds on the clock, both Blake and Wes vault over the wall for one more press. Right before the buzzer, Blake makes a risky pass to Wes, who snaps it right back to him. If I’d blinked, I’d have missed the whole exchange.
Someone on the other team must have blinked, because Blake fires that puppy into the net at top speed. The lamp lights, and the hometown crowd is on its feet, and we are all thrilled in row E.
I’m shrieking when Mama Riley picks me up clear off the floor, crushing me against her giant bosom and yelling, “GOOD BOY, BLAKEY! MAMA LOVES YOUUUUUU!”
The announcer calls the goal for Blake and the assist for Wes.
The intermission begins while I try to catch my breath. Seriously, I need to come to more of these. Cheering for my friends beats the snot out of cramming for another anatomy quiz.
“So, Jessica,” Mama Riley starts.
“Mmh?” I’m sipping my beer and watching them set up for an intermission game down on the ice. It has something to do with T-shirt cannons and giant bull’s-eyes.
“I hope you’re on some sort of birth control.”
The beer goes down the wrong pipe. I gag, my throat constricting. Then the hacking starts. I’m dying here, and Blake’s mom is still talking.