Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“You’re not drinking wine,” I said casually.
Ivan tore his gaze from the screen and frowned. “No, why? Whoa, that was a terrible pass. Did you see that?”
“No.”
“And the refs are freaking blind tonight,” he griped, sipping his beer with a full-body shudder.
I bit my cheek to hide a smile. “I didn’t think you liked beer.”
“It’s…fine. Oh! Almost. C’mon, guys.” He set his bottle down and clapped.
Whatever was happening here was way more entertaining than the game. The score was five to nothing in the second period. There was a chance the Blue Jackets would turn things around in the third, but I wouldn’t place that bet.
“Hey, Ive…”
He spared me a quick glance. “Yeah.”
“What are you doing?”
Ivan gestured at the flat-screen, his beer, the pizza box, and me. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m watching my team crush it with a brew, some ’za, and a buddy.”
I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing. “Let me rephrase that. Who are you, and what did you do with Ivan?”
He shifted to face me, raking his teeth over his bottom lip. “Am I overselling my enthusiasm for the sport?”
“Just a little. What’s up with that? You have two trees to decorate, at least two bottles of Zinfandel in the fridge, and a playlist of holiday tunes calling your name. This game is over anyway.” I stood and started gathering our plates.
“No, wait. I’d rather…talk about hockey.”
I frowned as I flopped onto the sofa, landing closer to him than necessary. “O-kay. What about it?”
“Uh…who’s your favorite player?”
“Vinnie,” I answered immediately.
“Why?”
“I’ve always admired his style of play. He takes no prisoners, but he’s fun too. He genuinely loves the game and it shows. How about you?” I pointed at the TV. “Who’s your favorite player?”
“Uh…I don’t really have one. I guess I like Crosby, but he’s not a Bruin.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“It kind of is,” he quipped. “Did you play defense because of Vinnie?”
I scratched my stubbled jaw. “Not consciously, but…maybe I did. He was older than us, but I saw him around the rink all the time when we were growing up and he was always really fucking good. Want to open those Christmas boxes and—”
“Who’s your favorite goalie?” Ivan intercepted.
“Goalie? Uh…”
“How old were you when you went to your first pro game? Do you have any game-day traditions? Did you ever get seriously injured? Have you had a concussion?”
I blinked at the barrage of questions, but slowly tackled them. Six years old, too many to list (although I told him my traditions were blasting the same game day song, eating the same breakfast, and wearing the same socks), broke my wrist five years ago, and yes, I’d had quite a few concussions.
Ivan hung on my every word and added a few extra questions to the list. What song? What breakfast? How long does a broken wrist take to heal?
“ ‘The Ocean’ by Led Zeppelin is my game-day jam, scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, lightly buttered.” I flexed and circled my left wrist. “This took about six weeks to heal. The good news was that it happened at the end of the season.”
“What about—”
“Hold up.” I set my hand over his mouth and pushed him flat on the sofa, lowering my pelvis over his. “I feel like we’re on a hockey-themed speed-dating app. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
I tilted my hips, caging his head between my arms as I bent to lick his lips, sliding my tongue inside his mouth. The kiss was hot and just the right amount of dirty. When he hooked his leg around my waist, I pulled away and nipped his chin.
“Try again, Ive.” I tugged him to sit up and reached for the remote on the coffee table, turning off the flat-screen. “So…what’s the story?”
He sighed. “I haven’t asked you about hockey, and I feel like a terrible friend. It’s your job and your passion, and it’s probably something you think about every damn day. If it’s a tough subject for you because you’re here instead of living the high life and traveling with—”
“I was not living the high life,” I corrected.
“But you were traveling—”
“On buses and staying in midrate hotels or dumps. The Sea Snappers are a super minor league team. My biggest perk was that I made enough not to need a second job. Not all that glamorous.”
“But it was professional hockey.”
I inclined my head. “Yeah, that was the cool part. I love the game, and that hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s just changed for me. That’s okay. I love being at the El Rink again. It’s been good for me. And you’ve been good for me, so…I’m not sure where you’re coming from with the terrible friend bullshit.”
“Okay, terrible is a stretch,” he replied haughtily. “But I can do better. If you want to talk about your career or what comes next, I’m here and I’m a great listener. You don’t have to worry that I’ll catch inconvenient feelings. Yes, I’ll miss you when you go, but friends cheer each other on. And I’m rooting for you, Court Henderson, so if you want to talk about hockey on a personal level—how you’re progressing or how your training is going—I’m here. That’s all.”