Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“Could be fun, though.”
I chewed on her suggestion for a moment, but not long enough to actually consider it before I was waving her off. “Look, Vince and I are fine. We scratched the itch and got it out of our system. And now things are back to normal.”
“Normal,” she repeated, arching a brow. “Which is what, exactly, when it comes to you two? Because I’m pretty sure he’s been undressing you with those sexy eyes of his since that first night at the gala.”
“Maybe, but he’s seen the goods now. He’ll lose interest. He’s got a hundred girls throwing themselves into his lap every day. And we’re professionals.”
Livia pursed her lips. “Uh-huh.”
“I need to get going, long day tomorrow.” I popped off her couch. “Thank you for celebrating with me.”
“Hey, Reya and Camilla extending your assignment through the Christmas holiday is a pretty big deal.” She stood, too, grabbing my hand. “You are a big deal, my friend. Don’t forget that.”
I squeezed where she held me. “Thank you. I… I think I could actually see myself doing this for real, Liv. I love it. I’m good at it. Maybe this is just the start.”
“You can do anything you want to do. I’ve always told you that.”
“Best friend obligations.”
She pinched me. “It’s the truth. I just can’t wait to see what you do next.”
That made two of us.
If I Didn’t Know Better
Maven
We were losing.
The crowd in Atlanta was vicious, their chants callous and loud as we fell behind by another point. It was four-to-one, our guys making a poor showing, and every single member of the team was wearing their emotions on their sleeves.
I stood behind the bench, phone in my pocket with absolutely no desire to film what was happening now. Coach McCabe stood beside me, arms folded over his chest, brows bent and lips in a firm line. He was pissed, but underneath it, I could see the worry winning out.
This wasn’t his team, and he knew it.
I heard him mutter something under his breath as the guys battled for the puck by where Will was defending our net. Carter managed to dig it free, and then he was skating down the ice, and Vince was flying out ahead of him, his focus on getting in position to score.
“Yes! Go, go, go!”
I didn’t realize the words had come from me until Coach glanced over at me with a smirk before his attention was back on the puck. I chewed my thumbnail as Coach called out instruction, trying to make a play happen. The puck went back and forth, around the back of the net, down to the middle of the ice before they were back in the offensive zone.
I held my breath the entire time, visualizing the puck going into the net.
“Come on, come on,” I chanted quietly.
The guys kept the puck moving, Carter making an attempt that was batted away by one of the opposing defensemen. Vince swooped in, and I saw with the rest of the crowd that he had a wide-open shot.
Before he could take it, an Atlanta player skated up quickly and pummeled him right in the face with a high stick.
The sickening crack of contact echoed through the rink, and Vince went down to the ice, curled into a fetal position and writhing in pain.
My heart stopped in my chest, ears ringing, everything happening in slow motion as Coach tried to keep the guys from clearing the bench. The Ospreys players who were already on the ice were taking off gloves and helmets, everyone ready to fight as Carter helped Vince stand.
Fists flew. Whistles blew repeatedly. The crowd roared, encouraging the fights.
But all I could do was stare at Vince.
He was bleeding, the skin between his nose and cheek bone split wide open. The sight of it made me woozy, and I planted a hand on the glass behind me to hold me steady.
“Vince!” I cried out, embarrassingly, but he didn’t seem fazed at all. He wiped his glove over his cheek, brow arching a bit when he saw the blood smeared, like he was impressed at the hit.
The referees broke up the various fights on the ice as Carter helped Vince skate back to the bench. He hopped the boards, and his eyes caught mine as the trainers immediately tugged him back toward the locker room.
I must have been wearing my concern like a neon vest, because he pulled to a stop right in front of me. He smirked, his face already swelling, the blood leaking down into his teeth.
“Hey, I’m good,” he said, pulling off a glove. He tapped my chin with his knuckles. “I’m good.”
I thought I nodded, thought the next breath came maybe a little bit easier. Then he was being toted back to the locker room, and I allowed myself one full inhale and exhale before following.