Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 107687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
When Google explains what kink is and gives me links of many options, I quickly throw down my phone. What in the hell am I reading?
But when he drops a bag of chips in my lap, I eye him. “Girls are always hungry, and snacks when reading are a must.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, fully taken aback by his actions. To my surprise, it turns out not to be a one-time action either.
The next day when we have player meetings, he falls into the seat beside me, Flynn on the other side of him, before they both greet me. Dimitri then tosses me a bag of Skittles and gives me a wink. I am so grateful, I don’t even have a retort. I have been starving all morning and running all over the building. I am very thankful for my sneakers. I really don’t understand how Elli and Shelli wear heels all day. My feet hurt in just sneakers.
As I snack on the Skittles, Dimitri swipes my pen and takes notes for me, writing in the margins what I need to remember and things I need to research later. It’s a lot, though. Even with the Skittles to take the edge off, I feel like I don’t understand anything. When Dimitri reaches for my pen again, I raise my brows as I watch him write.
We’ll discuss this later. He’s making that play too complicated.
One of the forwards, Wes, who’s on the other side of me, takes the pen from Dimitri and writes, Absolutely. Don’t think too much on that one.
I don’t know how or even why everyone is being so helpful and kind, but it makes me feel…important. If that makes sense. I think they care how I feel and how I am processing everything. It’s been a rough day—hell, a rough life—and their kindness means a lot to me.
I nod to no one in particular and make a circle on the play sheet for no reason whatsoever, but I want to look like I know what I am doing. The day is fast-paced after that, between morning and afternoon skates, which I learn is them scrimmaging a lot, but also being coached. Then a coaches’ meeting before I am required at the nutrition meeting.
So. Much. Information.
For the next two weeks, it is the same thing—work all day, and at nighttime, I “read,” when, really, I watch Dimitri play his game. It becomes very comfortable and very easy. Dimitri may tease me relentlessly, but really, he does him and I do me. On the weekends, I go home. I think Dimitri does the same, because he never asks where I go or why. He never even brings it up. I don’t know why that bothers me, but it does. But it isn’t like I ask where he’s going. I don’t know… We’re in a weird situation. I find him attractive, and sometimes I wonder what it would be like to kiss him, but I also wonder how it would feel to smack the hell out of him when he messes with me.
It’s complicated.
After a super-long day, I finally get home, and I feel dead. Lots of meetings, lots of talking, and lots of popping my wrist for feeling so overwhelmed. I head to the shower, wanting to drown myself in the hot water as it scalds my body. I wash my hair for way longer than needed, but I feel so tired today. When I get out, I miss the heat of the shower, but I know I can’t live in there, no matter how much I’d rather do just that as I get dressed. I have a very busy few days. My sisters are driving up tomorrow for us to go dress shopping for the wedding this weekend between Stella Brooks and Wes McMillan, one of our forwards. We are currently looking at Stella’s dad as a coach for the Bears, and I guess he has a good relationship with my peepaw, because he invited all of us to the shindig. The weekend hasn’t even started, and I’m already exhausted.
When I head into the living room, I’m surprised that Dimitri isn’t out there. I thought I heard him come in.
“Janie.” I jump at his voice, and he holds up his hands from where he stands in his doorway. “Stand down. Not an intruder.”
I snort at that. “I don’t have anything to hit you with.”
“I don’t think that’d stop you,” he says cheekily. It wouldn’t. “But I got some food from the deli downstairs. I don’t have your number.”
I blink. “For me?”
“Yes.”
“You got me food?”
He flashes me a blank look. “Am I speaking Russian? Yes, I got you food.”
“Oh,” I say, looking at the bag he’s pointing at. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” he says with a little smirk. “I got you a turkey sub and some fruit since it’s what you eat at the arena. But I wasn’t sure what you wanted on it, so I got everything on the side.”