Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
“What’s this I’m hearing about you being late for practice and distracted again?” is his greeting.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” It sounds like lip service, even to me.
His silence makes me want to fill the space, but I bite my tongue.
“Please tell me you weren’t late for practice because of woman problems.”
I can’t tell if it’s disappointment or frustration in his voice. Or both. “I’m not dating anyone. I’m focused on getting to the end of the year and being called up.”
What else can I tell him? That I’m back to following his advice to remain uncommitted until my career is sorted out? For a few weeks, I needed the distraction from being stuck up in my head, and Carly seemed like a good way to do that. Except that backfired on me in spectacular fashion.
As soon as Clover took over as my professor, I officially went on a total dating hiatus. It needed to happen anyway. I’ve spent most of my college career making sure I don’t get attached to anyone so I don’t have to worry about things like breakups.
For someone who has involved parents, a financially easy ride, and hasn’t had to work particularly hard for anything in my life—apart from hockey—I’m kind of a hot mess.
“Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe a girlfriend wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” he muses.
“Are you serious?” I cannot believe these words are coming out of my dad’s mouth. “Girlfriends are drama and energy. I don’t have time for that.”
“I played my best hockey after I met your mother.”
“Yeah, but as you’ve told me probably a thousand times, you also met Mom when you were done with college and so was she. The whole point of waiting until I’m in the NHL to settle down is so I don’t end up meeting someone and get all attached and then have to get over it when the long distance is too hard.”
I don’t even want to think about what it’s going to look like in June when Kody gets called up and might move to Vancouver, which would take him away from my sister. Again.
He sighs. “I don’t want you to do something that’s going to have a negative impact on your future aspirations, son. You’re smart and talented. You have a lot going for you, and you’re almost where you want to be.”
“I know.” Or at least I think I do. This hasn’t been my best season so far, but the whole I-slept-with-my-professor thing has been a bit of a mindfuck. “I promise I’ll get it under control. You don’t have anything to worry about. And I won’t be late for practice again.” I say all the things I know he wants to hear.
I’m almost at the gym, and I’d really like to spend the next hour purging all the demons in my head and wearing my body down enough that I can sleep without dreaming. They’ve been vivid lately. And not entirely pleasant.
He sighs. “Okay. Your mom and I will try to come down for a game in the next couple of weeks.”
“Sure. That’d be great, Dad.” Most of the time I love having my dad at games, but I’ve been off the last couple. And the pressure of having my hockey-legend dad watching me can be a lot to handle under the best of circumstances.
We hang up, and I push inside the building. The regular gym is pretty quiet at this time of night—only a few girls on elliptical machines and a couple of hardcore dudes whose entire life seems to revolve around lifting weights, based on their thick necks and massive shoulders.
I’d prefer as much solitude as possible. I’m not in the mood for people, particularly not my teammates. Or socializing. I open the locker-room door and make a face at the smell. This happens on very rare occasions. There’s some kind of issue and the showers back up. It makes it super rank—a combination of urine, smelly sneakers, body odor, and dick cheese. But I’ll deal if it means I can avoid running into guys I know.
I pull on a pair of compression shorts followed by a pair of running shorts—because no one needs to see the outline of my junk while I’m running—and my tank. Then I shove my feet into my running shoes, grab my towel, and toss my stuff into a locker.
I head down the hall to the main gym, passing the pool as I go. I pause, considering. A swim might be good. We closed our pool in September, and I miss doing laps. This one is overly chlorinated, but it’s better than nothing. And I could swim in my running shorts, if I had to.
I think I’m in luck and it’s empty, but as I reach for the door handle, a head pops out of the water and arms pinwheel in slow, deliberate strokes, legs kicking without making a splash, propelling the person forward. I watch as they reach the end and flip over onto their back. It’s a woman, based on the black one-piece meant for laps.