Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Twice was my limit. Women started getting attached the third time. If anyone ever did a study on this, I had enough information for them to base their analysis on. Fuck number one usually happened after a game or a party, so it was fun and new. Fuck, number two was more of a “Was it good, or did I imagine it?” Fuck number three. . .well, I’d only gotten to fuck number three a couple of times and regretted it every fucking time. They’d get attached. It went from a fun hookup to “We should meet up for drinks or coffee or whatever.” Sure, they hinted we’d fuck after, but I wasn’t interested in talking to them and I could get coffee or a drink with my freaking mother.
The Lyla Phenomenon was something else. That was what I was calling it now (in my head, of course). I hadn’t even spoken to my teammates about her, but I hadn’t called dibs and hadn’t fucked her, so there wasn’t much to say. It wasn’t like I would ever openly admit what I was currently doing. I’d been at Lyla and Marissa’s apartment long enough for the Taylor Swift album that Lyla was playing to get to a song about someone’s tears ricocheting, which seemed to be a favorite of hers with the way she mouthed the lyrics. It was a sad fucking song. She was washing dishes now. When I got there, she’d been curled up on the couch, reading a book. I’d asked her a few questions about it, which she ignored, so I’d swiped it out of her hands to gain her attention. I still hadn’t gotten it. It was maddening.
“It’s Saturday night,” I said. “Don’t you have anyone else to hang out with?”
“Don’t you?” She looked up at me from the sink.
“Sure, but Marissa and I are going to the same party, so I figured I’d swing by to pick
her up.” And I wanted to see you again.
She ignored me and looked back at the cup she was washing, now mouthing the lyrics to the next song.
How many fucking songs were on this album? The music was distracting my distraction, and I wasn’t sure I could take it any longer.
“Do you want to join us?” I asked.
She pulled a face. “You just said you’re going to a party.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.”
I stifled a groan. This fucking girl. Why couldn’t she just indulge me in a simple conversation? I was going to have to start fucking singing. If I knew any of the lyrics, I probably would have. That was how desperate I was for her to talk to me. Between her nonchalant attitude and Prescott telling me she used to be completely different, I became morbidly intrigued. Anyone else would have just been curious, maybe tried to learn a few things, and let it go. I became fixated on it. On hockey, cars, grades, and right now, Lyla James Marichal. The only other person who could intrigue me this much was my father, who only came around when it was convenient. In his absence, I would fixate on his life. Where was his office? Who was his secretary? Why was he fucking Nancy from accounting instead of staying with my mother, whom he supposedly loved more than anything (including his children)? The music suddenly stopped and snapped me out of my thoughts.
“Why don’t you want to go?”
“Because I don’t like people.” She said it so matter-of-factly that despite my annoyance with her, I huffed out a laugh, and then she added, “But if the issue is that you’re planning on having sex and can’t perform while I’m here, I can leave and come back in. . .” she sized me up. “Five minutes.”
I looked the other way so she wouldn’t see me laugh. How was it that her insults amused me and turned me on?
“Why don’t you want to stay? You think you’ll get turned on and want to join us?”
At that, she laughed wholeheartedly, and damn it, I tried not to react, but her laughter was a thing of beauty. Her eyes twinkled, and she threw her head back a little. It was infectious. I wondered if she’d walked around with that twinkle in her eyes before whatever happened broke her. She switched off the water, dried her hands, and grabbed her bag. She was leaving. Where? With who? I gripped the book tighter, wishing it was her hand. Her waist. Her throat.
“Why is that funny? It’s not a far-fetched scenario. You must have seen it in one of the porn videos you watch.”
She rolled her eyes, but I saw a ghost of a smile. She was wearing baggy jeans and an oversized shirt. Biggie Smalls, this time. Even with it, I could see the sway of her hips as she sauntered over. She kept her eyes on mine the entire time. My heart sped up. People were predictable. I could typically gauge what they would do before they did it. It was one of the things that set me apart from most people on the ice. If you looked for certain things, you could probably predict at least half of what someone would do next. Not Lyla James, though. With how she was walking, she looked like she would either straddle my lap or slap me. Maybe both. Those were the options. She stood between my legs, so close to me that I could pull her onto my lap. Fuck, I wanted to. She was so close that if she looked, she’d see the outline of my dick with how hard she was making me. Baggy clothes, hair in a messy bun, random taste in music and all — I’d never seen anything sexier than this woman.