Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 129323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
I laugh. “How did that go over?”
She tips her head in my direction. “Do you see anyone else here for him?”
I glance around, but it’s not like I would actually know who’s here for whom.
“It’s just me.” She sighs. “We only have each other, and as much as my brother likes to act tough, he’d be lost without me.”
People’s backstories always interest me. As much as I hate to admit it, finding kindred spirits out in the world makes me feel not so alone. With everything Molly has shared, it has me wondering about her and Dane’s.
Why are they alone? Where’s their family?
I won’t ask. For so many reasons, but mostly to preserve my own story. Asking questions opens the door for people to expect reciprocation. And while I don’t truly know Molly, I like her.
The thought of lying to her any more than I already have, by simply allowing her to believe I’m Aiden’s girlfriend, doesn’t sit well.
Dane slams against the glass and locks eyes with his sister. He salutes her before rushing off to chase the guy with the puck.
I laugh, and she rolls her eyes.
We spend most of the game chatting about mundane things. Where she went to college. Her goals. I allow the conversation to remain fixed on her. It keeps me safe.
She’s so easy to talk to. Funny. Smart. If her brother is even half as similar, it’s not hard to see why he’s one of Aiden’s closest friends.
“Gah,” Molly screeches. “Look, Aiden has a breakaway.”
We jump up, and Molly cheers while I bite my gloved hands. The nerves intensify for no reason. Aiden’s team is winning, and the game is nearly over. There’s really nothing to be nervous about.
You want to see him succeed.
It’s important to him, which means it’s important to me.
With my eyes trained on the ice, I watch as he slices his way down the ice just like he did all those times on the pond. More proficient. Faster. But the same.
A defender from the other team comes up on him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too focused on one thing. The stick lifts into the air, he swings, and the puck flies right into the net.
And that’s a wrap on my first home game.
19
AIDEN
I stare out the window, taking in the city lights and the people walking below on the sidewalk even in the early morning hours.
Much like myself, this city doesn’t sleep.
These people below are likely ending their night, while I fear I’m beginning my day. It’s too damn early, but no matter what I do, I can’t get my brain to shut off.
My best guess is that I’m still riding the high from the game three win.
But really, if I’m being honest, it’s her.
Thoughts keep whirling in my head. I saw Cassidy at the game, talking effortlessly to Molly. They seemed to get along well, and that makes me happy.
It shouldn’t.
I mean, yes, I need Cassidy to play the part, but she’s doing it so well. Too well.
The lines are blurring, and I’m doing nothing to stop it.
Not to mention, my dick is constantly hard when she’s around, which is really fucking with my head.
I need to keep the line drawn.
This must remain professional—professionally fucked up.
No more thinking about her on her knees, taking my cock in her mouth. No more daydreaming about bending her over— and here I go again. I’m like a fucking horny-ass teen.
These thoughts need to stop. The only thing I need to be thinking about is hockey.
We won, and I had a helluva game. I should be sleeping soundly. Instead, I’m focused on Cassidy.
Which leads me to one big question.
Did I make a mistake bringing her on? She’s already helping me tremendously. Since I first laid eyes on her, I’ve led my team to three wins.
That should be enough for me. Who cares if she occupies my head far too much?
Which she does.
I want to know everything there is about her.
Where did this girl come from? And how does she know just what I need?
I sigh, closing the drapes and pacing the floor, mind racing from one thing to the next, landing on my constant.
“Fuck,” I growl, pulling at my hair.
I’ve tried to turn on the TV, anything to keep my mind preoccupied, but I can’t focus on it. They play highlights of our last game, and I don’t care to see it.
I lived the fucking day. I don’t need to hear some commentator who hasn’t played a fucking day of hockey in his or her life, give feedback on every little play made.
It’s fucking ridiculous.
The amount of fucks I’ve just given is an indicator that I’m spiraling. I need an outlet. A release.
I’ve even considered going for a run. But it’s the middle of the night, and I need to work on getting back to bed. I need my strength.