Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75424 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75424 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“My drawing,” he says, chuckling again. “I can’t draw, either.”
“First of all, everyone can draw,” I insist. “Secondly, this wasn’t about honing your artistic skills, it was about expressing yourself. I don’t see any of you in this drawing, Ian. And you didn’t follow the directions for the assignment.”
His gray-blue eyes widening, he says, “Okay. Sorry, Evie, I’ll try harder next time.”
“Please do,” I say, adding in a tight voice, “The others look up to you. If you take this seriously, there’s a better chance they will, too. And honestly, this could be good for you, Ian. I know you aren’t one of the team members with anger issues, but we all have suppressed emotions. Especially men who play professional sports. Our society puts a lot of pressure on you guys to ignore your feelings and be tough all the time, and that isn’t healthy.”
He nods, a new respect in his gaze. “You’re right. I’ll bring my A game on Monday, and you and your friends’ first round is on me. How’s that?”
“That sounds like my generous boyfriend,” a female voice purrs from the doorway. “Hey, Evie, how are you, doll?”
Whitney, Ian’s gorgeous girlfriend of three years, sashays into the room wearing a slinky red dress far too fancy for happy hour at the beer garden/sports bar across the street from the Possums’ midtown arena. But that’s never stopped her before. Whitney is an assistant designer at a major fashion house. She has a wardrobe any New York City fashionista would kill for and zero concerns about standing out in a crowd.
“I’m good. You?” I ask, ignoring the sinking feeling in my gut as she wraps her arms around Ian and leans in.
Whitney and I are about as opposite as two people can get, but when our paths cross, she’s always polite. I don’t know why seeing her with Ian makes my stomach snarl into a stress knot.
Maybe it’s just that I wish Ian were with someone…friendlier, a woman who appreciated his sense of humor and kindness as much as his studliness and fame. Whitney sighs at his jokes and shushes him when he laughs too loud, and it’s always bothered me.
The world can be such a hard place. It just makes sense to enjoy the good times and embrace laughter and happiness whenever possible. Whitney should be amplifying Ian’s joy, not warning him to take it down a notch.
That’s probably why I want to pry her fingers off Ian’s abs with an extra-sharp colored pencil.
Or maybe it’s something else, something I’ve never admitted to anyone—even myself.
Sometimes I suspect that my feelings for Ian aren’t purely of the surrogate-little-sister variety and that what I’m feeling when I watch him hug Whitney isn’t concern for a friend who’s dating the wrong woman, but plain old jealousy, rearing its ugly head. But if it is jealousy, it’s completely stupid—Ian will never see me as anything but a kid-sister type—so I do my best to ignore the ugly little prickle across my skin whenever it arises.
“You look so cute, Evie,” Whitney says, rubbing a possessive hand over Ian’s pecs through his long-sleeved Ice Possums t-shirt. “Like a little farmer doll about to go feed the goats.”
“Or the sheep,” Ian adds with a wink and a laugh. “I’ll talk to Sven before Monday’s class, too, get him to ease up on the sheep stuff.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. There are worse nicknames, and if it gets out of hand, I’ll shut it down myself. I don’t want the guys thinking I can’t fight my own battles. If they’re going to open up to me in their work, they have to respect me first.”
“Aw, she’s so cute,” Whitney says, doing that thing where she talks about me like I’m not standing right in front of her, which also drives me crazy. “Little Evie, all grown up, with a real job.” Her gaze shifts from Ian’s face to mine, her voice cooling a degree or two as she adds, “It doesn’t matter that your brother had to pull strings to get you this gig. I’m sure you’re going to do a fabulous job.”
“Thanks,” I grit out, accepting the backhanded compliment with as much grace as possible as Whitney takes Ian’s hand and starts for the door.
“Come on, honey, we’re going to be late,” she says. “I want to get a table on the roof before they’re all gone.”
“See you there, Evie?” Ian asks, smiling back at me as he follows her.
“Yeah, see you there.” I force a grin until they’re out of the room and then let it fall away as I exhale an audible breath.
That could have gone better.
But it could have been much worse, too.
As I collect the drawings, I see a few that are actually right in line with what I was hoping for, proving this team isn’t a lost cause. I’m already getting through to a few of these men. On Monday, I’ll reach a few more. With a little luck, by the time I write my final evaluations, I’ll have helped the players connect with their feelings and process them on the page instead of out there on the ice.