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)
That night, I bask in the luxury of eating a falafel alone in my room. Violet isn’t here to yell at me, so that’s something.
At ten o’clock, I receive a text from Blake. Hi, girlfriend! I just wanted you to know I’m turning in for the evening. Alone. Because we’re dating.
I’m not a total jerk, so I reply: Hey there! How’s Chicago? I’m turning in too. Alone. Because that’s how I roll.
I miss you, he writes.
And now I don’t know whether to be honest. I miss you too, I admit. But that doesn’t mean we’re dating.
Blake: We are though.
Me: Good night, Blake.
Blake: Good night, girlfriend.
***
The next day, I take a yoga class first thing in the morning and then undo all my good work by spending the afternoon worrying about my exam grades.
I should have gone home to California, and I would’ve if my credit card didn’t hate me. I’m not the type of girl who likes to be alone. I need people around me. The nice word for this is “social.” But another view on it is “needy.”
In fact, the reason I hooked up with Blake in the first place was out of loneliness.
So I hang out the next evening with Jamie, who also seems at odds. “I got used to having Wes around,” he admits. “Now that the season has started up again, I guess I have to remember how to be alone. Here’s a tip for you—fall for someone who doesn’t travel seventy nights a year.”
My face heats. “I guess Hozier is out then,” I joke.
“Mmh. Some guys are worth it,” my brother says. “Yum. That voice. He’s a little skinny, though. I like ’em meatier.”
So do I, apparently. “I don’t know if I can get used to you perving on men.”
“Hey, I’m married. I can’t steal your boyfriend.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say quickly.
Jamie gives me a quizzical look. “Joking.”
“Right.”
Together, we make a giant lasagna and then eat it in front of the big-screen TV.
“This is going to be a tough game,” he says when it’s hockey time. “Chicago is a great team, and their best player is all healed up from his injury last year.” He rubs his hands together as they set up for the first face-off. Wes is starting, but Blake is on the second line tonight.
I find myself looking for his face whenever the camera pans the bench. He’s easy to spot—those broad shoulders are unmistakable. And each time his long legs kick over the wall to take the ice, I sit up a little straighter.
The speed of the game is breathtaking. But I wish I was in the arena so I could see him better. The cameraman keeps teasing me with glimpses and then taking Blake away again.
He grabs the puck on a breakaway, and the camera zooms in.
“Come on, dude!” Jamie yells.
I hear myself squeal as he charges the net. Chicago’s d-men get their acts together and try to block his path, but all that muscle on a fast course toward the goal cannot be stopped. The goalie butterflies himself in an attempt to block the shot. But Blake puts the puck right over the guy’s shoulder and into the corner of the net.
“Oh God!” I shriek. “Blakey!”
It’s almost as if he can hear me. He does his signature celly: riding his stick like a pony. Except then he looks up at the camera and blows a kiss.
Jamie and I are jumping up and down on the couch. “A goal in the first five minutes! We’ve got all the momentum,” my brother crows. “Seems like Blake is back!”
My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. I want to text him, to tell him how exciting that was. But he can’t read it for hours anyway.
I can hardly sit still for the rest of the game. Jamie and I drink a six-pack while waiting to find out if Chicago can answer our early lead.
They can’t.
Blake gets an assist, and then Wes gets a goal. I make sure to shriek twice as loud for Wes.
By the time the final buzzer rings, it’s 3–1. Toronto has won. I’m drenched with sweat and tipsy too.
And there’s something I need to admit to myself: I’m now a hopeless hockey fan. But who wouldn’t be? It’s a really exciting game. My sudden interest has absolutely nothing to do with the extra-large-size forward wearing jersey number 17.
When I emerge from the subway near my dorm a half hour later, my phone chirps with a text.
Blake: I blew my girlfriend a kiss. I hope she was watching.
Oh, she was. Great game! I write, stepping right around the issue of the kiss. J and I had a lot of fun watching you guys mow down Chicago.
My phone is silent after that, and I assume the conversation is closed. But twenty minutes later, I’m shutting off my light when the phone chirps again. When I check the screen, the only message is a three-second video of Blake’s hands unzipping his suit trousers. He’s looped it, so those big hands unzip the pants and then unzip them again…