Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 83550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
It’s a relief when we finally pull up to the hockey house. The windows are glowing with light, and the faint bass of music thumps through the walls. Inside, the living room is packed with his teammates and their girlfriends. Red Solo cups are scattered across every available surface. I recognize a few of the guys. Ryder McAdams and Wolf Westerville. They eye me with curiosity. Kind of like I’m a puzzle they’re both trying to figure out.
“You want a drink?” Bridger asks, staring into the living room.
“Nah, it’s not really my thing.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Huh. I didn’t know that.”
“Probably because we’re not actually friends,” I say with a pointed look.
“Yeah, that must be it.”
I know he’s teasing, but the words sting anyway. It’s not like I don’t have my reasons. I’ve watched my mom drink away her problems for years, stringing herself along from one bad decision after another. I love Vivienne, but I don’t want to end up like her, hopping from man to man in hopes of finding my happily ever after.
I want to be the one in charge of my own destiny.
And that’s difficult to do when you’re intoxicated and your judgment is impaired.
“Should we head upstairs?” Bridger asks, interrupting the whirl of my thoughts. “It’s quieter.”
With a nod, I follow him up the staircase, grateful to leave the noise and watchful stares behind.
His footsteps are steady on the hardwood, the sound mixing in my ears with the echo of my pulse that seems a beat too fast. By the time we step into his room, I’m hyperaware of the silence that has fallen over us. He shuts the door, and for a moment, we stand there, awkwardly rooted in place.
He glances at me. “Should I step out while you change?”
The question takes me by surprise. It’s thoughtful. Unexpectedly so. But probably unnecessary. The memory of his eyes on me during my performance flashes through my mind, and I push it aside, shaking my head.
“It’s fine,” I say, forcing my tone to be casual. “We can both just turn around.”
He nods, and we move in unspoken agreement, our backs to each other as I drop down and sort through my bag. I pull out a pair of shorts and a tank top, my fingers fumbling slightly as I peel off my jeans. I remind myself that this is no different than getting ready for bed any other night.
Except for the fact that Bridger is only a couple feet away, changing in the same room.
I slip the tank on and glance over my shoulder, intending to grab my discarded clothes, but my eyes land on him instead. His back is turned toward me. He’s stripped off both his hoodie and jeans, giving me an unobstructed view of his body. His broad shoulders taper into a trim waist, and his navy boxer briefs cling to him like a second skin. Heat rushes to my face, and I quickly look away, hoping he didn’t notice.
“See something you like?” A teasing quality fills his voice.
I whip my head around to find him facing me, his brows raised and a smirk pulling at his lips.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
After a few silent seconds, I manage a hasty, “No! I mean, I wasn’t—”
“Relax, Tate,” he says, clearly enjoying my flustered state. “I’m just messing with you.”
I mutter something under my breath and busy myself with folding my jeans. It’s only when he clears his throat that I force my attention back to him. His expression has softened, the smirk replaced by something that can only be described as uncertainty. It’s an odd look on him. He usually seems so self-assured. And here I am, so discombobulated that I can’t even enjoy it.
He clears his throat. “So, we’ve got a game tomorrow,” he says, his tone deceptively casual as his eyes search mine.
I blink, unsure where he’s going with this. “Okay?”
He scratches the back of his neck before shifting. “I, uh… got you something.”
When I remain silent, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a jersey before thrusting it in my direction.
I stare at it, the orange and black colors bright against his hands. “What’s that for?”
“It’s for you,” he mumbles. “I picked it up at the school store today. You’ll need it for the game. You know, since you’re my girlfriend now.”
The word girlfriend hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of everything it doesn’t mean. I force myself to close the distance between us and take the jersey, running my fingers over the thick material.
“Fake girlfriend,” I murmur, unable to help myself.
“Well, yeah,” he says quickly. “That’s what I meant.”
Something tightens in my chest at the way he says it, like the words taste bitter in his mouth. I fold the jersey carefully and set it on his dresser before slipping beneath the covers of the bed. After turning off the light, he crawls in on the other side. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as he settles in beside me.