Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
I messaged back once to say I had a good time the other night, but that after yesterday morning, it’s clear our schedules don’t align and I’d like to focus on hockey, please and thank you. Apparently, she thinks if she keeps apologizing, somehow those sentiments will change.
Shane grins knowingly. “Zero chance for a repeat, huh?”
I swear that guy can read my mind sometimes. Although it’s common sense, I suppose. You don’t fuck with a man’s hockey schedule. The end.
I blow out a breath, my frustration rising again.
“See, mate, this is why my theory of time travel is the supreme one,” Beckett says. “In my model, you would be able to go back in time and order yourself not to go upstairs with her. Like I always say, when Carma closes a door, Destiny opens the window.”
“Let it go,” Shane pleads. “She doesn’t even spell it the same way.”
“Spelling is overrated. So anyway, if time and space are linear—”
Shane points his index finger at him. “One more word on the subject and I will literally dump this beer over your head.”
“You’re no fun, mate.”
Shane turns back to me. “Also, I realized the solution to your Garrett Graham problem is staring you right in the face.”
I perk up. “Yeah?”
He gives me a broad, satisfied smile. “Gigi Graham.”
My brows knit in question. “What about her?”
“Bro. The man’s daughter goes to your school. You’ve got a built-in contact. You should talk to her.”
“And say what?”
He shrugs. “Ask her to put in a good word for you.”
“Yeah…unlikely.”
Shane eyes me suspiciously. “Why, what did you do to her?”
Beckett chuckles into his beer.
“I didn’t do shit.”
“So just being yourself then.”
That gets a loud snort from Beck.
“Whatever.” I push off the couch and get to my feet. “I’m going upstairs.”
I leave them to their devices and head to my room, where I heave myself on the bed and grab my laptop.
Just like I did yesterday when I got home from the rink, I search for more details about Graham and Connelly’s juniors camp. But I’ve already exhausted that well, so I conduct a different search. Thanks to Shane, I’ve got Gigi on the brain now.
I pull up some of her highlights, but they’re few and far between. College hockey isn’t televised the way the NHL is, and women’s college hockey is nearly impossible to find. I do manage to locate one game from last season, a playoffs matchup between Briar and Yale. One of the local sports networks aired it in its entirety and thankfully someone uploaded it.
At one point, the camera pans to a sophomore Gigi on the bench. As she leans forward, watching her teammates kill a penalty, the intensity in her gray eyes pours off the screen and heats my blood. I can’t help but wonder what she’s like in bed. If she harnesses that same intensity.
There’s something fiercely sexy about her. Something so hot about the way she’s out there playing one of the most physical sports there is. Body checking isn’t allowed in women’s hockey, but that doesn’t take away from the strength you need to play this sport. Besides, it ends up becoming a cerebral battle. Far more tactical. I think about what it would take to neutralize my opponent without contact, how I’d create turnovers, and I realize I’d have to adjust my entire game.
Without the roughness and the players getting bashed into the boards, the game itself stands out. And Gigi plays it well. Her skill level is insane. There’s beauty in the way she moves. Her stick-handling is fucking gorgeous.
By the third period, Briar is ahead by three goals, and Gigi’s line is done for the night. The camera pans over to the Briar bench. She has her helmet off, dark hair in a sweaty ponytail. Unaware of the camera on her, she undoes the elastic band to slip it onto her wrist, and her hair tumbles down her shoulders in long loose waves.
It’s then I realize that my dick is hard.
Luckily, a knock sounds on my door before I commit a first and jerk off to a women’s hockey game.
“Yo.” Shane pops in without waiting for permission.
I close my laptop and set it beside me on the mattress. “Yeah?”
“The women’s team has an exhibition game tonight. Briar versus Providence. It’s in Newton.” He names an area about an hour’s drive, west of downtown Boston.
“So?”
“So you should go.”
“Why?”
“To talk to Gigi Graham, dumbass.”
Before I can object, a set of keys sails toward me.
I catch them on instinct, nearly getting stabbed by the unicorn key chain Shane’s little sister gave him for his birthday in April. The guy has a real soft spot for that kid. It’s kind of sweet. Which of course didn’t stop Beckett from buying a pink stuffed unicorn this summer and leaving it on Shane’s pillow one night when he knew Shane was having a chick over.