Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Her twin-lepathy comes through loud and clear though as she stares at me . . . Knew I was right!
I glare at her . . . Shut up!
This conversation’s not over.
Fine.
“You’re doing the silent-talking thing again,” Shep says, pointing at Hope and then me. “As a fellow Barlowe sibling, I feel left out.” He thrusts his bottom lip out, pouting dramatically. I don’t think he actually feels left out. It’s the same ploy he used with Mom and Dad when he’d get mad that we were talking without him. They’d tell us to use our words, he’d arrogantly smirk at having gotten his way, and then we’d all go on doing exactly what we were doing before he tuned into our A-B conversation and wanted to C his way into it.
“Fine. Joy, skate with me.” Hope stands as she extends the invi-told-tion my way.
Guess I’ll be telling her sooner rather than later.
We leave the remaining guys to talk about hockey, which Ben will totally hate, and hit the ice. We’re barely ten feet away when Hope grabs my hand and orders, “Spill it.”
“What?” I feign stupidity and she squeezes my hand. Hard. “Ouch, fine. When did you get so bossy? That’s my role. You’re the sweet one. I’m the bitch.”
“No, you’re not. And quit deflecting and tell me what that look was between you and Dalton.”
“Ssshhh!” I hiss. “Someone will hear you.”
She spins, skating backward so she can look me in the eye. “Did you finally figure out you like him?”
I look over my shoulder, finding Dalton’s eyes easily because he’s watching me and Hope with one brow sharply lifted. He smirks like he knows I’m going to cave and tell her. I stick my tongue out at him.
“Ooh, figured out you like each other, I see,” Hope amends.
“We’re seeing how things go,” I admit.
“Okayyy,” she drawls, nodding slowly. “Are we feeling casual fuckboy vibes or serious dun-dun-da-dun vibes? Vibes, get it? I’m being actively influenced by Rayleigh, who’s awesome by the way.”
All the blood rushes from my face, and a pit opens up in my stomach. “Why are those the only two options? I need something in the middle, like solidly in the middle. Yellow double lines, do not cross, kind of in the middle.”
Hope grins as she pirouettes, then comes back to skate at my side. “That was more revealing than I’d hoped it’d be. I figured you’d punch me for even suggesting the m word.”
“We’re dating.”
It’s the first time I’ve said it. First time I’ve told anyone. I thought it’d feel different than it does. More stupid-girl and less happy-drunk. But happy is what I feel as my belly goes fizzy and heat flushes my cheeks. I don’t bother trying to hide the smile stretching my lips wide.
“I’m happy for you,” Hope says earnestly. “What about the no-athlete thing?” She screws her face up that she even has to ask, but I can read her concern for me, and she’s asking in love.
“I still don’t like it,” I admit. “It makes me nervous, mostly because I’ve worked too hard to be reduced to nothing more than a WAG. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I quickly amend, given my sister’s complete dedication as a Wife-And-Girlfriend to her husband’s career.
She waves me off, not offended in the slightest. “Nobody’s gonna think less of you because you fell in love with someone who shares your passion for hockey. As long as you don’t parade him into the studio for weekly game chats, nobody’ll give a shit who you go home to after you do the sports report.”
I wish that were true. Some people won’t care. Others will see it as the reason I played at liking sports to begin with—nothing more than a tactic to snag a hot husband and get that MRS degree. People like Steve Milligan, who think I don’t belong in sports at all and would expect me to eagerly fall into a WAG role.
“Well, there goes my big plan. I thought we could do a game analysis from my bedroom after every game. Maybe wearing team-themed lingerie. No?” I deadpan, and Hope laughs the way I knew she would.
“God, he must have nerves of steel to deal with you,” she says lovingly as she shakes her head.
“Deal with me?” I balk. “Maybe I’m the one struggling to deal with his grumpy ass, ya ever think of that?”
Hope laughs again. “He could be the grumpiest of assholes—which to be clear, I don’t think he is—and you’d still be the harder one to handle.”
“I don’t want someone to handle me or control me or whatever the hell that means. I want someone who will watch me do my thing, no matter how stupid, ill-advised, or illegal it may be, and still go ‘that’s my girl!’ with a smile on his face.”