Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Vince
Maven was like a fretting mama bird, the way her brows pinched together as she held ice to my cheek after the game. I’d been cleared by the medical staff, no stitches needed — but it was too late. By that time, we’d already lost the game, not even scoring during the power play my injury provided us.
The loss stung worse than the cut that was currently numb, thanks to all the ice I’d had on it.
But as much as I was pissed over the game, I didn’t mind the current view — Maven in her sweatpants and a hoodie four-times too big for her, her hair wrapped in silk, eyes wide and concerned as she took in where my face was swollen and bruising.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you might be worried about me, Maven King.”
She flinched like I’d screamed, like she’d been lost in her own world. Then, she sighed, finally taking the ice off my face. She looked down at where she held the bag in her hands, trying to force a smile.
“More like concerned for the stick you broke.”
I smiled, too — mostly at the fact that it was so difficult for her to even joke like she wasn’t upset. I liked that thought, that she worried about me being okay.
It had been hell, pretending like everything was normal between us since the night in the gym. Behind hockey, there was nothing I thought more of than the moans I elicited from her on that bench, of her breasts spilling over that dress, of spreading her ass when I took her against that mirror.
My cock twitched at the memory, and I cleared my throat, sitting up a bit on the couch. We were in my suite, the lights low, television quietly filling the background with sports highlights — including the nasty high-sticking that split my skin tonight.
I’d made it this far without pushing her, letting her think what happened between us really was a one-night thing.
But my patience was wearing thin waiting for her to admit it was more.
“This might be the most I’ve ever seen something akin to distress on your face,” I said.
Maven let out a long sigh, tossing the ice on the coffee table beside her. She was on the ground next to the couch, balancing on her knees, and even sore as hell from the game and with a splitting headache from the hit, I still had a hard time not imagining what it would be like to stand and tower over her in that position, to stretch her throat and take both our minds off the game.
“How do you do it?” she asked, shaking her head. “I just watch you out there, and I’m groaning in pain. I mean, tonight, you got a stick to the face,” she said, gesturing to my injury. “But even on a regular night, you’re skating nonstop, getting thrown into the glass and the boards and onto the ice, taking elbows to the ribs…” Her eyes found mine. “It’s insane.”
“I told you,” I said with a shrug. “I’m the mayhem.”
She rolled her eyes on a smile, but it fell flat when her eyes skated over my cut. “Does it hurt?”
“A little,” I confessed. “But not too bad. This is pretty minor.”
“Minor?!”
“Nowhere near getting a couple teeth shattered,” I said, tapping my veneers with my pointer finger. “I’m sure Livia could tell you all about that.”
She grimaced, waving her hand. “I’ve heard enough of her gruesome stories to last a lifetime.” Maven watched me a moment before hesitantly reaching out, her cool fingertip gliding over the scar on my eyebrow. “And this?”
“Ah,” I said, mirroring her touch once she’d pulled back. I missed that touch as soon as it was gone, longing to reach out and snag her hand and hold it in my own. “I wish I had an epic hockey story to back this one up, but sadly, it happened off the ice.”
“Fall off the monkey bars?”
“Took a steel-toe boot to the face, actually.”
Maven’s jaw dropped. “What?!”
“Senior year of high school. Picked a fight with a guy who was three years older and about a hundred pounds heavier than me. All muscle.”
“Let me guess — over a girl?”
“You see right through me.”
She chuckled, shaking her head. “Why am I not surprised? Did he steal your date to prom or something?”
“He got drunk and decided to use one of our cheerleaders as a punching bag because she was his girlfriend at the time.”
The color drained from Maven’s face.
I shrugged. “I didn’t care if I was younger or smaller than he was. And I got a scar, but he got the lesson of a lifetime.”
“Did he press charges?”
“Against a high-schooler who kicked his ass?” I scoffed. “He was too embarrassed. Limped off like the coward he was and left my friend alone, which was all I wanted.”