Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
“Want to go hiking with me sometime?”
“Not much for hiking.”
“Got any hobbies?”
“Working out.”
I wait for more.
There’s nothing.
I stretch my brain capacity trying to think of something to get him to engage. To even look at me and act like he might want to be friends with one of his teammates. I mean, how will he even know unless he tries?
Then I decide to do something bold.
Daring.
Stupid as fuck.
“Brooke and I started out as a fake relationship so her dad wouldn’t murder me for having a one-night stand with his daughter,” I blurt out, then watch him expectantly.
His head pops up, eyes wide as he stares at me. “Come again?”
I nod. “Yeah…I’d picked her up in a bar the night before training camp started. We had a one-night stand, but the next morning I knew it was stupid to have left her and not gotten her full name or number. And I ran into her at the arena, and I was like, holy shit. Pay attention to this, Bishop, because this type of coincidence happens for a reason. But her dad walked in on us while we were sort of making out, and he went apeshit.”
I pause for effect, and Tacker is still listening to me with intense interest in his expression.
I barrel forward. “So yeah…Brooke just sort of blurted that we had been dating for a few months secretly, and then she told him we were engaged.”
“Why did she do that?” he asks, and that gives me hope.
“She was worried he’d take it out on me at practice, or that it would even jeopardize my position on the team.” I don’t tell him that her worry stemmed from losing her mother earlier in the year, as that would only bring Tacker’s loss to the forefront.
Tacker nods in understanding, but apparently my story isn’t interesting enough to keep his attention, as he starts to look down at his phone again.
“And then as we were hanging out more and more to perpetuate this lie, we found out that we actually like each other.”
Fuck, that sounds lame. Like something I’d say in grade school to my geek loser friends. Tacker glances at me, gives me a half smile, and then drops his gaze back down to his phone.
Sighing, I prepare to admit defeat, but then his eyes snap back to me. “Wait a minute…so the engagement is fake? I heard some of the guys saying you got Brooke a ring.”
Yes. I have a conversation going. Like feeding a young, tender fire with just a bit of kindling, I offer him tiny pieces of information, hoping to fan his curiosity so he stays engaged. “It’s my mom’s ring. Her idea to use it.”
“I’m confused. Are you two together for real or not?”
“Oh, totally for real,” I say confidently.
“So you’re just going to stay engaged?” he asks, his brows knitting together in confusion.
“I don’t think so,” I say as I rake my fingers through my hair. “You see, the plan was to go through with the engagement to get Coach off my back. He had been pressuring me to shit or get off the pot, if you know what I mean. So we figured we’d pull off a fake engagement, let this settle down, and then eventually institute a breakup that was mutually beneficial to both sides.”
Tacker just stares at me, scowling slightly. Then he says, “That’s the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re not shitting,” I agree with him wholeheartedly. “My mom used the word moronic, but same thing.”
And that right there does it. A slight curving upward at the corners of his mouth. Possibly the first time I’ve seen him smile outside of when the Vengeance scores a goal, and even then it’s a tight sort of smile.
Tacker shakes his head, dare I say in an amused way. “You are so fucked if this gets out.”
“You won’t tell, will you?”
“Nope,” he says emphatically, and it’s not a surprise to me. I knew Tacker wouldn’t be the type to spill secrets or fuel gossip. I mean, he doesn’t talk to anyone so I knew it would be safe with him.
Turning to the table, he sets his phone back down and stands up from the bed. “Going to turn in. I’m beat.”
“Yeah,” I mutter in agreement, and as he walks to the door to put the DO NOT DISTURB sign out, I glance over at his phone. There’s a picture of him and a lovely blond woman, faces pressed together side by side and smiling huge at the camera.
His fiancée who died.
He’d been flipping through her pictures.
My gaze cuts back to Tacker as he walks over to his suitcase and takes off his T-shirt. There’s a long, jagged scar on his back that crosses diagonally from the bottom of one shoulder blade to his hip on the opposite side. It’s not the first time I’d seen the scar, as he’s been shirtless plenty of times in the locker room and training area.