Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I smack gloves with my buddy. There’s one minute left and all we have to do is hold on. Sixty seconds later, the arena is playing our victory song—“Tick Tick Boom” by Sage the Gemini—and I swear my shoulders loosen a little, the knot in the pit of my stomach unwinds.
Then, I relax a little more. Max, Asher, Hugo and I head off the ice and into the tunnel.
“Dude, we should call you Poker Face. That’s your new nickname,” Max says to me.
I tap his stick, earning the name by hiding a smile. “Works for me.”
“Poker Face,” Asher repeats, like he’s trying it on for size.
“But you’re the man,” I say to the golden boy, since he’s been having a helluva start to the season.
The dude flashes me a winning smile as Hugo seconds the praise. “I’d say stop showing us all up, but never stop,” the teddy-bear defenseman says.
“That’s the goal,” Asher replies as we reach the corridor, where Everly’s waiting as she usually is post-game. She’s holding a tablet against her team-blue blouse, and she’s ready for negotiations with that professional slicked back hair. Some of her requests will be easy. Others, not so much. She’s smiling, but she’s always smiling post-game. It’s her superpower, I’m sure, come rain or shine.
“Asher. Wesley,” she says, in her upbeat tone. “Will you two rock stars talk to the press tonight?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Always,” Asher seconds. He is not shy. The camera loves him, and he loves the camera.
“Hugo, I won’t bug you tonight, because you were a sweetheart to talk to that sports podcaster earlier in the week. I can’t even begin to tell you how happy the GM was about that,” she says, and I’ve got a feeling she’s heaping on the thanks both because she means it and as a way to needle Max.
“Anytime,” Hugo says.
After Everly takes a quick—and likely soldiering breath—she turns to Max, amping up the wattage on her grin. It’s part of their dance. They do this tango every time. “Max, are you up for it? That was a great game tonight.”
As he rips off his helmet, our goalie flashes her a smile that’s dripping with irony. “Aww, thanks for asking, but I have a bingo thing to get to.”
It’s a game, the excuses he makes to avoid the press.
“I’d be happy to charter you a helicopter to make it on time after you chat with The Sports Network,” she says with a tilt of her head. “Would that help? You can talk to the media and still be at your bingo thing with minutes to spare.”
He stops, seems to give it some thought, then asks, “Will there be strawberries and champagne on the helicopter?”
I roll my eyes, right in tandem with Asher. This is a new level of theater.
“If that’s what it takes,” she offers brightly, going toe-to-toe with the grumpy goalie.
He taps his helmet against his padded thigh. “Let me get back to you. Your generous offer does not go unnoticed.”
I can tell she’s biting back a fuck you, Lambert even as she says, “Can’t wait to hear.” Then, with genuine gratitude, she says to Asher and me, “And I appreciate your help, guys.”
“Anytime,” Asher says, speaking for both of us.
When we turn into the locker room, Max says, “What’s it like being the nice guys?”
“Let me see if my agent wrote a new sponsorship deal and I’ll let you know,” I say dryly.
“I’ll check my bank account too,” Asher says.
Max huffs, then trudges ahead to his stall and I go to mine—where Christian’s waiting for me.
“I told you we’d get it next time,” he says.
“You did, Winters,” I say, but out of nowhere, a flash of tension rushes through me. That’s weird. I don’t usually feel tense post-game. Usually this is when I start to unwind. But I keep the focus on the ice as I undo my skates. “And nice goal earlier,” I say since Christian scored the first point.
“Thanks.”
“How are the kiddos?”
“Perfect,” he says, a proud dad, then clucks his tongue. That sounds ominous. “Listen, how’s everything with Jay?”
It takes me a beat to align Jay with Josie. But when I do, I try not to think of her list, or their aunt who passed away, or the fact that I know things about her that her brother doesn’t.
Besides, well, the obvious thing that’s a secret between Josie and me.
I don’t want to misstep with him so I’m careful forming an answer. “She’s cool,” I say, figuring that sounds low-key.
“Yeah? Everything going okay? No problems?”
It’s not like I’d go telling on her to her brother if we were having problems. But it’s easy to tell the truth. “Everything is super chill. We get along and give each other space,” I say.
That’s accurate-ish.
No, it’s not. Space is not having dinner in the kitchen, hanging out on the couch, and planning to go to an improv class together as part of her get-out-of-her-comfort-zone bucket list.