Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
I blink a few times. “I’m sorry, did you say horny nutsack?”
“Sure did.” He’s grinning again. “My aunt is a total weirdo. She has zero verbal filter. Anyway, I became Balls Junior; BJ for short.”
“Huh, that’s…interesting.”
“My family is a little quirky.”
I won’t argue with that. “They sound entertaining.”
“They can be when they’re not embarrassing the hell out of me.” BJ makes a left into the parking lot at the arena. He’s still smiling, so I can’t tell if he’s being serious.
“Does that happen often? Your family embarrassing you?”
He shrugs. “It’s a fairly regular occurrence, but it’s all in good fun.”
The embarrassment he endures is probably a lot different than the kind I do at the expense of my family. I’ve had to bike out to the Town Pub and drive the car home for my dad when he’s too wasted to function. It’s frustrating, but it’s better than him getting a DUI.
BJ parks in a spot near the front doors, and we hop out of the Jeep. I meet him at the back bumper so we can grab our hockey bags and sticks from the trunk. When he tries to roll mine over, it makes an obnoxious scraping sound.
“Oh shit. You lost a wheel. That’s no good.” He scans the ground, searching for it.
“I know. I need to replace the bag, but I haven’t had a chance,” I lie as I reach for the handle.
“Why don’t you take mine, and I’ll carry yours?” He offers me the handle of his bag.
“It’s cool. I got it.” I slide the handle back in, which takes a couple of tries, because it’s prone to jamming, then thread my arms through the straps and hoist it up, carrying it like a backpack.
On the way in, I check my phone. “Shoot. It’s already five to seven. Sorry we’re gonna be a little late.”
BJ lopes along beside me, his strides measured and casual, clearly in no hurry. “It’s okay. We’ve got two hours of ice time.”
We stop at the women’s change room. “You can leave your bag in there. It’ll be safe since the rink is ours tonight. I’ll meet you out here in a few, yeah?”
“Sure, sounds good.” I take a step toward the change room.
“Winter?”
“Yeah?” I glance over my shoulder.
“I’m glad you came tonight.” His smile makes my heart stutter. He’s so hot it should be illegal.
“Me too.” I disappear inside. It’s empty and a million times nicer than the one at the old rink.
I quickly change into my hockey gear, but don’t put on my pads since we’ll be free skating for the first while. It isn’t until I put on my left skate that I remember BJ still has the right. I hobble into the hallway and find him leaning against the wall, a jersey slung over his shoulder, his helmet tucked under his arm, and my other skate in his hand. He’s wearing an athletic shirt that conforms to his long, lean, toned torso. I try not to be obvious about checking him out.
His head lifts as I approach. “Damn. Why you gotta be so beautiful?”
I bark out a laugh. “The compression pants really do it for you, huh?”
“You’re a badass. It’s hot.” He holds up my skate. “And I forgot to give you this.”
I reach for it, but BJ tips his chin toward the bench beside the locker room. “Have a seat for a sec.”
I give him a questioning look, but do as he asks, mostly out of curiosity. Instead of handing me my skate, BJ drops to one knee in front of me.
I frown. “What’re you doing?”
“Checking to make sure it’s the right skate.” He compares it to the one I’m already wearing. “Looks good to me.”
“It should, unless you make a habit of holding girls’ hockey skates hostage.”
“Nope. You’re a snowflake.”
“A snowflake?”
His hand wraps around the back of my calf. It should not feel intimate. It should also not make my stomach flip or my nipples perk up, or everything below the waist clench. And yet...
His whiskey gaze lifts, and a smile tips one corner of his mouth. “One of a kind. An original.”
More stomach flutters. “Wow. How many times have you used that line?”
His eyes crinkle in the corners when he laughs. “Fuck, I like you.” He taps the top of my foot and holds the tongue back.
“I’m not Cinderella. I can put my own skate on, you know.” But I can’t say I dislike this style of flirting. It’s different from what I’m used to.
“Cinderella was willfully oblivious, and a pushover, which you are not. And I know you can put your own skate on, but I wanted a minute with you before I introduce you to everyone.”
“So you could get your flirt on?”
“Basically, yeah.” His grin is cheeky as he holds my skate steady. “I probably should have asked you for coffee or ice cream, huh?”