Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Even the super-hot, pomegranate-eating dude.
“I bet his name is John.”
Eliza makes a sound of distress. “Ick, no. I feel like it’s Chad or Chandler.”
I move my gaze to her. “Chad and Chandler are out there getting laid. John sits in a romance shop, listening in on conversations not meant for him, and reads raunchy smut.”
Eliza’s eyes shine with mischief. “No matter what his name is, I bet you wouldn’t mind screaming it.”
I grin at her, fighting back the giggle that would like to escape.
Because while my sister is maddeningly optimistic, she’s also nearly always right.
CHAPTER 4
Ciaran
Cruz drops to his knees, kicking his leg out to block my shot, but since I knew he was going to do that, I lift the puck with my blade, sending it over his leg and into the back of the net. I don’t celebrate because I know it’ll only add fuel to the fire. My roommate was out late, drinking and fucking, so he’s struggling this morning and pissed at me for making him come to work out with me.
Not that I care even a bit.
I got no sleep either.
A certain bookshop owner had me tossing and turning all night.
“Fuck!” he spits as he swats the puck out from behind him and down the length of the ice. He skates toward the bench, leaning on the boards and downing a whole bottle of Gatorade. I skate around the goal, ignoring his groaning as I play with the puck. Picking it up, tapping it on one side of my blade and then the other, before lifting the puck up and over my shoulder to my skate. I kick it up and then swat it back into the goal. I haul ass for another puck, repeating the move, over and over, until I can’t miss unless I try.
Man, I love hockey.
I love the feel of a stick in my gloves, how my skates crunch against the ice, and the way my legs burn when I dig in, skating hard. I love how my nose gets cold even though I’m sweating buckets. I love the sounds of stick to puck, the crack, the slap, and then the reward of the goal horn when I score. I fucking love this sport. Everything about it. And I don’t care that sometimes the sport doesn’t love me, because I love it enough for both of us.
And I will succeed.
Nothing will get in my way.
Nothing can distract me from my goals.
Not even a cute bookshop owner with an ass shaped like a heart. When I see Cruz skating back toward me, his helmet up and his face red from exhaustion, I try not to laugh at him. He looks pathetic, but he was aware we had a planned workout this morning. One thing I don’t miss is my workouts, and he knows that. His dark eyes are red from no sleep, and he looks like he’s gonna puke, but I feel no pity for him. “Maybe you should stop drinking.”
Cruz doesn’t even meet my gaze. “Kiss my ass, Carter.” I snort at that, and he lowers his helmet. “But you’re right, and I’m gonna do better.”
I shrug as I move the puck back and forth. “One of the main goalies could get hurt, and they’d need you. Or you could be scouted by another team. You gotta be on your A game, Cruz.”
He exhales hard, setting up before rolling his shoulders.
“They’re always watching,” I remind him.
I expect him to cuss at me, but instead, he says, “I know. You’re right.”
That surprises me because he has been a bit out of control lately. His confidence took a hit when he didn’t get chosen for the second spot on the Assassins. In my opinion, he was better than Gratzelle, the backup they selected instead, but I am biased. He’s my closest friend, and I know his potential. He is NHL material, just as I am. “Was it worth it?”
“The drinking, no. The hookup, fuck yes.” His grin is unstoppable, and I know he had a good time—which is cool, he deserves it—but without the drinking, for sure. “She was a freak. She had me screaming her name, and I never scream a girl’s name.”
Freak. Within seconds, images of Lou on her knees with her toes curled up under her sweetheart of an ass come to mind. I wish I had taken a picture. Her, in all her beautiful glory, on her knees in front of all those books… Fuck me. The way her hair fell along her shoulders, how she smelled of roses and lavender. How I would do anything to run my tongue over the curve of the roll along her back. Shit, within seconds, it becomes mighty tight in my girdle, and I groan inwardly. I usually head to the bookshop after my morning workout, but I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I haven’t done much but think of the Dirty Pages owner and all her dirty desires that I would gladly jump at the opportunity to fulfill. But I can’t. She’s a distraction I can’t afford right now.