Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“I swear to God whenever I step out onto that ice—day or night, spring or fall, pre-season or post—I can literally feel a fucking heartbeat.”
Eager to stay stuck in this vibe rather than the other I kick my chin her direction and encourage, “Tell me about something else that happened here.”
Harlow practically leaps out of her seat to dart away for the stands.
One minute we’re talking—like normal people—and the next it’s apparently fucking cardio day with us doing bleachers to get our heartrate up.
And instead of just using the stairs, which are clearly there to be used for the fastest, most direct routes, she jogs along an entire row, goes up a couple steps, takes off towards the middle of that row, then hoists herself onto the next by standing on the seat.
It’s weird.
Unnecessary.
And the most eyebrow raising shit I’ve seen in a minute.
But it’s fun.
And definitely tests my athletic abilities, something I hope impresses her.
At least a bit.
For Cripes Sake, though, she shouldn’t be this fucking much faster than me. After all she’s fucking pregnant! Not like super far along but still.
Harlow finally stops in the middle of the row, in the middle of the stands, about center ice. Her frame rocks eagerly on her feet prior to her pointing to the seat. “I was right here the first time I remember winning The Cup.”
Pretending I’m not winded is hard as fuck. “Don’t you have an owner’s box?”
“We do and we did, but Dad and I wanted to be closer to the action. Be in the moment with all the other hockey lovers, which we were unless he had to do ass kissing. Whenever that happened, I was down here on my own so to speak; however, Letty typically came with me to those games. Chick loves hockey almost as much as I do. She even has front row season tickets now.”
“Where?”
“Her seats are right down there,” she casually points below us.
I smile, wipe the sweat off my brow before she can notice, and recall, “First walking, first ice skates, first Cup. What other firsts you got?”
Harlow sprints off again forcing me to grumble about having to keep up.
We jog around the arena for a bit in another zig zag path that leads us to the highest section below the boxes behind the visitor’s goal.
Upon our arrival, she curls her hands around the edge of the seat in front of her and announces, “I was here when I got caught making out on the kiss cam with my first real boyfriend.”
Amusement barely outweighs jealousy. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen?!”
“He was fourteen.”
“Gotchu. You went from chasing graves to cradles.”
She lightly scoffs and playfully punches me in the chest. “Fuck you.”
“That’s how you ended up in the latter.”
Another loud squeak is followed by a second swing that I intend to dodge yet fail. Laughing and collecting my breath aren’t really an option due to her sprinting away once more. Thankfully, it’s not far this time. And even more thankfully, it’s only a couple rows down.
“I was here when I saw Edward Johnstone, the famous movie director cheating with an actress in his upcoming movie. The scandal broke like three days later and all I could say was ‘duh’.”
This time she doesn’t wait for a comment before taking off again.
I assume this is punishment for the earlier jabs.
You know make sure I’m too out of breath to give her anymore bullshit about her pre-me dating life.
Our journey to the exact opposite side of the stadium from where we first began comes to a halt on an over dramatic sliding along the railing to the row closest to the glass. “Right here,” she motions both hands towards the end seat, “is where I punched Deevon Honka—he was a forward for our affiliate team at the time—in the face for telling me to stop giving a shit about hockey and just become one of the ice girls.”
“The cheerleaders?”
“They don’t cheer. They clean the ice and inspire morale.”
“So…cheerleaders.”
She glares, skips—literally fucking skips—along the row about six seats and stops. Harlow uses the edge of a sneaker to kick the location that possess the information. “I was here watching the boys practice when I told Dad I was going to college at the closest university for Sports Management to which he pleaded I go for basically anything else. Literally anything else. He told me he’d even send me to the best broadcasting school money could buy if I would just choose an indirect to this business degree, which I did not.”
“Broadcasting?”
“For like a minute I wanted to be one of the chicks you see on TV telling you about hockey shit, but the truth was, it wasn’t me. I wasn’t that type of person then and I damn sure am even less so now. Every time I open my mouth, I swear to God we lose fans.”