Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
I know who Mulder didn’t send: Georgia Barnes. I mean, come on. Vaginas and sports? The horror.
A lanky man in a suit approaches the cameraman, and I curse softly under my breath. Not softly enough, because Dad glances up from the email he was answering on his phone.
“What is it?”
“Geoff Magnolia,” I grumble, nodding discreetly toward the cameras. “That’s who HockeyNet assigned to cover this.”
Like me, Dad also isn’t a fan of Magnolia’s reporting. He follows my gaze. “Huh. He got a haircut. Looks like shit.”
Laughter bubbles in my throat. “Dad. Since when are you so snarky?”
“What? It’s a shitty haircut.”
“Meow.”
“Can it, Brenna.”
I watch as Magnolia converses with his cameraman. He uses a lot of hand gestures. It’s distracting. Thankfully, he never does that on camera.
“You know what? Screw HockeyNet,” I say. “I’m applying at ESPN this fall. They have a way better track record of hiring women. And if I intern there, that means I don’t ever have to see Ed Mulder again. Or that tool over there.”
I glance at Magnolia again, and oh my God—he’s drinking coffee out of a straw. Or if not coffee, it’s at least a hot drink, because steam is rising from the liquid.
“Ugh. I take it back. He’s not a tool. Tools are actually useful. That man is not.”
“And I’m snarky?” my father demands. “Take a good look in the mirror, Peaches.”
“Can it, old man.”
He howls with laughter, and then returns to his emails.
As I crane my neck trying to pick out any familiar faces in the stands, my phone rings. I peer down, register the unfamiliar number on the screen, and hit ignore.
Three seconds later, a text pops up.
Hey, it’s Jake’s friend Hazel. He gave me your number. He’s in the locker room and desperately needs to see you.
I frown at the message. I don’t know why, but this feels like a trap. Like she’s luring me into the locker room so she could…what? Beat me up with a hockey stick? I resist the urge to roll my eyes at myself. My paranoia is a bit absurd.
“Dad, hey, do you mind if I go talk to Jake for a minute?”
His head pops up from his phone. “How’d that happen?”
I hold up my own phone. “He says he wants to talk.”
Dad thinks this over for a second. Then he shrugs. “Give him hell.”
“Oh, I intend to.”
“That’s my girl.” He pauses for another beat, and his tone becomes brusque. “If the outcome of this chat results in my daughter coming back here with a boyfriend, then tell that boyfriend he’s invited to dinner tonight.”
My jaw drops, but I don’t question him or attempt to discuss this unexpected invitation, because I have no idea why Jake even wants to see me.
And why am I racing to see him, I ask myself a minute later, after I’ve burst through a second set of doors. My step stutters in the middle of the hallway.
Jake broke up with me. I shouldn’t be running back to him so eagerly. And what if he’s only summoning me to say thanks for returning his bracelet? That would be so humiliating. I don’t need his gratitude. I need his…
His what?
I don’t even know. I mean, my heart certainly knows what it wants. It wants Jake Connelly. But news flash—my heart is reckless and stupid. It doesn’t look out for itself, which means I have to look out for it.
When I reach the locker room area, there isn’t a security guard in sight. I’m not sure which door leads to the Harvard locker room, so like a total fool I call out, “Jake?”
One of the doors to my left immediately swings open. I half expect Hazel to be on the other side of it, but she’s not. It’s Jake, and his forest-green eyes soften at the sight of me.
“You came. I wasn’t sure if you would.” He opens the door wider so I can come in.
I follow him inside. The game doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes, but it’s still weird to see the locker room empty. The wide wooden lockers spanning the walls are neat and tidy, uniforms and padding hung up and waiting for Jake and his teammates.
“Where’s your friend?” I ask when my gaze returns to his.
“In her seat, I assume. I’m sorry I had to text you from her phone, but I forgot mine at home.”
“Ah. That’s why you didn’t respond to any of my messages about your bracelet.” I nod at his wrist, relieved to see the familiar pink and purple beads. “I see you got it, though. Good.”
“Almost didn’t,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. We don’t have a lot of time before the team arrives, so let’s not waste it on a stupid bracelet.”
My eyebrows fly up. “A stupid bracelet? You’re talking about your good-luck charm here, Jakey. Show some respect.”