Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Britta stops in front of me with a handful of mail I’m assuming is mine. “It’s going to happen, Sum.”
“Yeah?” Let me hold you. “How do you know?”
“I know I don’t . . . don’t go to the games, but I’ve watched them on public access. And I’ve been working in Sluggers long enough to know that the kind of faith your teammates have in you is extremely rare. Okay? It’s not typical. Neither are you.”
“Thanks, wife.”
It just slips out. Probably because I’ve been calling her that in my head since leaving. It helped me feel closer to her, instead of twenty-five hundred miles away.
She blinks slowly over the word wife, and something I’ve never seen before in her eyes gives them sort of a melted quality. The toe of one cowboy boot turns inward, one knee pressing into the other, her tits rising and falling on a big breath. Holy shit. Does she like being called my wife? At this very moment, it’s probably better if I don’t know. Because thanks to my sprained wrist, I haven’t jacked off in three days, and if Britta enjoys being called my wife, I’m going to do something embarrassing, like hump the arm of her couch.
“You ever decide to come to a game, you sit in the family section, Britta. Where I can keep an eye on you. Okay? I know facing your father will be scary, but you’ll never be alone as long as I’m in the building.”
Whatever I saw in her eyes flees as soon as I utter the word family. “Those seats are for parents. Grandparents. Do they ever . . . make it to your games?”
“Not this season. Not in a while. My grandmother . . . passed away two years ago.” A nail hammers its way into my throat. “She was the one who bought me my first stick. Taught me how to play and signed me up for my first league. Somehow it doesn’t seem right when they come to the games without her, you know?” I smile at the vision that pops into my head—a woman with a short cap of white hair, arms crossed high on her chest. “She used to wear this red plaid hat to every game. You know, those hunter-style caps with the ear flaps? I could see it out of the corner of my eye during every game growing up.” I shake my head. “I miss seeing that hat in the stands.”
Britta surprises me by taking a hesitant step in my direction.
Another one.
And then she slowly lays her cheek in the center of my chest.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.
There’s no way she can’t hear the rapid slamming of my heart, so I don’t bother trying to pull back or hide it. I can’t hide from her, period. Something about her nearness and warmth, her belief in me, brings a confession pouring out of me without warning. “Britta, I should have gone pro when she was still around to see it. That was my goal, but the damn injuries kept setting me back. Now . . . I’m worried my parents are never going to see it either. All of the time they spent in the stands will be for nothing.”
She winds her arms around my waist, and it takes every hint of willpower in my body not to smother her. To let the moment happen without ruining it or doing too much. “You will go pro, Sum. But for what it’s worth, I’m sure . . . no, I know they’re already proud. And so was your grandmother. Not only because you’re talented, but because you’re a good person.” She looks up at me, eyes twinkling. “This is going to be hard for you to hear, but not everything is about hockey.”
“That’s blasphemy, Britta.”
“Uh-oh.” She chews her bottom lip. “Am I in trouble with the hockey gods?”
I know I shouldn’t—and I blame three days without beating off for muddling my brain—but I let my hands settle on her hips. I rub them in my palms and grip them hard, ready to get my hands on her ass if she gives me the slightest encouragement. Come on. Let me slide my hands into those panties and play with something tight. “Do you want to be in trouble with the hockey gods?” I press my mouth against her ear. “You’ve got one right here, sweetheart.”
“Sumner.” It’s a playful admonishment that turns serious when she pushes away from me, working to catch her breath. “Sum.”
The fact that she’s scolding me while her face is flushed makes me even hotter.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. I should go home. This girl wrecks me. I don’t know how to act right around her, because it feels like she should be in my arms. But she’s not—and she doesn’t want to be.