Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Why have enemies when you can have brothers?” I yell as I steer around the oval, maybe showing off my mad Zamboni-driving skills for the photographer.
“Now hurry up and get off that thing before you get arrested again, like the time you tried to steal a Zamboni,” Tyler says, making a “get on with it” gesture.
“I wasn’t arrested,” I say, scoffing as I make another loop.
Leighton lowers her camera a bit to smirk at me. “Of course you weren’t, Miles. I’m sure you talked your way out of it.” Her playful tone says she knows me so well, and the sound makes my chest tighten. She also seems more relaxed than when I ran into her an hour ago. I hate the thought of her unhappy or stressed.
“Maybe not arrested, but you were banned from the rink for a week.” Tyler will just not let it go. “Basically the same thing for a hockey player.”
“What’d you do, Prof?” Rowan calls from the tunnel. “Try to actually steal a Zamboni?” He’s cradling a fluffball of a dog—some kind of Pomeranian-Chihuahua mix. “You need to get better at being an outlaw, Falcon. I’ve driven a Zamboni countless times and never got in trouble.”
“He can’t misbehave,” Tyler shoots back. “He’s gonna be co-captain.”
“Not if Coach finds out about his checkered past,” Rowan adds.
My grip tightens on the controls as my conscience threatens to ruin what should be a fun shoot, not a therapy session for me to exorcise my guilt about sleeping with, shacking up with, and oh, falling ass over elbow for the coach’s daughter.
“You guys need to be better sports about waiting your turn.” I manage to keep my tone even. “It’s still my shoot.”
Leighton clears her throat, stepping closer on the ice. “I hate to break it to you, Miles, but your ride’s up. Everyone gets their moment with the Zamboni.”
It pains me, but I stop driving. I have to follow some rules at least.
Rowan whistles. “Take that, co-captain. Get your ass off the Zamboni. It’s my turn with Wanda the Wonder Dog.”
I glance at the tiny fluffball in his arms. He already seems halfway attached to it, and I’d bet good money he’ll take that dog home, maybe to his daughter, Mia, or maybe for himself. Either way, it’s happening.
I hop off the Zamboni, giving Leighton a quick nod. “Admit it though. I’m an awesome Zamboni driver, right?”
“The jury’s still out,” she teases as she busies herself with the camera. I step closer, leaning in to peek at the shots on the screen. As I do, the faint scent of her lotion—that warm and sweet brown sugar and vanilla elixir—hits me, and my brain momentarily stalls. It takes everything in me not to press a kiss to the hollow of her throat. The locket she wore on our day together looked perfect against her skin there, a symbol of a future where I’d run into her in the hallway and we wouldn’t have to dart into the stairwell. Where we could talk freely, touch lightly, interact without worry.
But could we ever have that future? What would that take?
A throat clears, sharp and intentional. It yanks me out of my spiraling thoughts. I glance up, half-expecting Tyler or Rowan, but the sound comes from the tunnel. Coach is heading onto the ice, his eyes scanning the setup.
Oh, shit.
I straighten, ripping myself away from Leighton and trying to look casual. “What’s up?” I ask, my voice steady even as my pulse races for entirely different reasons now.
Coach’s face is implacable, unreadable, and it’s terrifying. Did he notice me inhaling the scent of his daughter?
Leighton is much cooler than I am. “Hey, Coach,” she says, easily. “You want to show them you’re the best Zamboni driver ever?”
She masterfully keeps the convo about the Zamboni, and I could kiss her.
Only that thought’s not helpful either.
“Maybe I will. It’d be good for them to see how it’s done,” he says, a dryly sarcastic reminder that he’s in charge. When his gaze shifts to me, my stomach drops with the fear that he knows something—that he can see it in my eyes. “Leighton said the dog-sitting went well?”
It’s not a tricky question, but my gut twists anyway. “Yes, it went great!” I blurt too loudly. “The dogs love your daughter.”
Behind Coach, my brother’s eyes widen, aiming question marks at me. Did you really say that?
“They think she’s great. They’re obsessed with her.” I can’t stop babbling. What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I talking about the dogs or me? “They can’t wait to see her again,” I add, trying to cover up the reality—that the dogs saw her a couple hours ago when we had breakfast together after I had her.
For fuck’s sake, brain. Give a guy a break.
Coach tilts his head, no doubt piecing together the holes in my story, like how would I know the dogs are obsessed with her since I’m supposedly not at home at the same time as the dogs and Leighton?