Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
And just like that, the invisible wall between us shook in its foundation.
“We’re fine,” I bluffed.
Vinnie arched a brow. “You’re mad at me. I know why, and I get it. We don’t have to go into it now, but at the very least, we should call a truce ’cause if we’re working with impressionable teens, you really oughtta be nice to me, Moore.”
My mouth opened in a perfect O. “I’ve been perfectly civil to you. More civil than you deserve, Kiminski.”
“See? That wasn’t nice,” he teasingly scolded. “I can’t believe I’m the voice of reason here.”
I fixed him with a bored sardonic stare. “You are never the voice of reason.”
“I kind of am now.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you—oh, my God.” I pointed at the door. “Good-bye, Vinnie.”
He snickered, flashing a lopsided devil-may-care grin my way. “Wait up. Let’s seal the deal on this truce.”
“Oh, brother.”
“I’m serious. Let’s shake hands, hug it out, kiss and make up, or all of the above.”
I regarded his outstretched hand suspiciously and cautiously slid my palm against his. “Fine. Truce.”
“See, that didn’t sound friendly. You ruined it. Gimme a hug,” he demanded, pulling me into a bear hug, squeezing me hard enough to crack a rib.
I let out an oomph of surprise and tried to wriggle out of his hold. He took the hint and loosened his grip. I knew it was all in good fun or at least meant to playfully rile me up, but when he bent to kiss my cheek, I turned my head just as he swooped in and bam! Our lips collided in an actual, honest-to-God kiss.
A fucking kiss.
I couldn’t speak for Vinnie, but I was too shocked to move.
We’d been here before.
Sure, it had been almost twenty years ago, but I was positive neither of us was looking for a repeat. I certainly wasn’t. Any second now, he’d back up, swipe his hand across his mouth and make some ridiculous joke to right the balance. But he didn’t.
He softened his lips and molded them to mine, tilting his chin as if testing a new angle. And suddenly, this felt real.
Oh, no.
Oh…no.
I pushed out of his arms, sucking in a gulp of air.
Holy shit.
My heart beat like a drum, and my mouth was bone dry.
“I think—I think we’re good now,” I rasped.
Vinnie’s shell-shocked expression gave way to something unreadable. He scratched his nape and stepped aside.
“Yeah. Uh…what time is practice?”
“Thursday at three.”
He nodded and tried a smile that never reached his eyes. “Cool. See ya, Nol.”
I froze in place as the door swung shut behind him, willing my heartbeat to calm the fuck down.
Did that happen?
It wasn’t real. I knew that, but he didn’t pull away. He lingered, he pressed closer, he…he kissed me.
Reality check: Vinnie was a notorious prankster. He was always doing something to push boundaries—make you laugh, make you mad, make you stop taking life so damned seriously. Silly was his fallback language. If lighthearted pranks and teasing kept some uncomfortable parts of the past at bay, I was all for it.
But I was still confused. Very confused.
Teenagers were a notoriously tough age group. Spiked testosterone levels often led to excess energy, rough play, bouts of misguided anger, and frustration. If you factored in school, friends, family, social media BS, and hormones, you were dealing with human powder kegs one spark away from blowing a fuse. And that was just on the ice.
“Pass the puck, Kinney,” I called out.
“I was open. You could have passed to me,” Jason Umboldt growled, holding his stick in the air as he skated the blue line.
“You weren’t open,” Kinney argued. “Max was all over you.”
“Like a flea. I could have shaken him off, no problem.”
“Hey!” Max snarled, charging forward.
I blew my whistle and raised my arms in a universal “Stop fucking around” gesture, prepared to dive between the two sixteen-year-olds. “Cool it. Let’s try it again and—”
“Yo, what did I miss, Coach?”
Ten awestruck teens spun in a comical one-eighty, their mouths agape as Vinnie Kiminski glided toward us, his signature cocky grin locked and loaded. My brain took an unwelcome inventory, noting that his black workout pants hugged his quads and his muscular chest tested the seams of his pullover. He was big all over…almost twice the size as when we were the same age as these kids—sixteen and seventeen.
I used to be as in awe of Vin then as they were now.
He’d been faster, stronger, tougher…and hands down, the coolest kid on the team. And the most fun. His juvenile locker room pranks were still the stuff of legend—putting unwrapped, soggy mini candy bars in everyone’s skates or leaving tiny paper cups filled with water in helmets.
He’d had the sort of contagious energy that fueled the rest of the team. We’d worked hard and played hard ’cause we’d wanted to keep up with him. He was the sun, the rest of us mere planets caught in his gravity.