Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
He means I’ll be notified that I didn’t get the job. At the moment, the likelihood of me landing this internship is about as good as me landing on the actual moon.
Whatever. I swallow my disappointment and try to convince myself that perhaps I’m better off.
“Thank you for your time,” I say politely.
“Hmmm. No prob.” He’s once again concentrating on something other than me.
Yes. I’m absolutely better off. I’d hate working in even the same building as someone like Ed Mulder. The man doesn’t give a crap about anything but himself and his precious Oilers. The only time he engaged with me or seemed the slightest bit interested was during our brief discussion about Jake. Mulder’s hard-on for Connelly is almost comical—
My step stutters on my way to the door.
An idea forms in my head. It’s insane. I’m aware it’s insane. And yet…I think maybe I don’t care that it’s insane.
I want this internship. I want it so very badly. People have taken far more desperate measures to get a job. In comparison, what I’m about to do is…trivial. You know, just a silly woman with her trivial pursuits.
“Mr. Mulder?”
He glances at the door, annoyance in his expression. “Yes?”
“I…well, I didn’t want to mention this before, because I thought it might be a bit inappropriate, but… Jake Connelly…” I hesitate, second-guessing the insanity.
I draw a breath, quickly penning a pros and cons list in my head. There are so many cons. Like, a lot of them. The pros don’t seem as satisfying as—
“What about him?” Mulder says impatiently.
I exhale in a rush. “He’s my boyfriend.”
12
Jake
Morning practice is grueling, but I don’t expect anything less from Coach. He was already riding our jocks before we made it into the finals—now all bets are off. We’re expected to skate faster, hit harder, take more shots. It’s an intense workout, and some of the skating drills we run leave even me breathless, and I’m the best skater on the ice.
Not that I’m complaining. Some guys like to grumble about having to haul themselves out of bed so early. They bitch about the nutrition guides, or Coach’s hard-ass nature. I can’t deny that Pedersen’s got a more physical style of play than I do. Me, I rely on my speed and accuracy rather than brute strength. But in Coach’s playing days, he was a goon, and he promotes the same aggression in his players. Brooks is our main enforcer, but lately Pedersen’s been pushing the other guys to throw more elbows. He doesn’t expect it of me, though. He knows what I can do.
Coach is waiting for me in the hall when I leave the locker room, my hair wet from the shower. He slaps me on the shoulder. “Good hustle out there, Connelly.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“You gonna bring that same hustle to the finals?”
“Yessir.”
He slants his head. “Briar’ll be tough to beat.”
I shrug. “Not worried. We got this.”
“Damn right we do.” His expression turns grim. “But we also can’t fall into the overconfidence trap. Jensen had a shit season last year, and he’ll be clamoring to make his comeback. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re doing two-a-days.”
Me neither. Briar is looking much sharper this year. I’m not sure what happened last season, except that ever since Garrett Graham graduated, they’ve had a tough time finding that offensive breakout. Nate Rhodes is good, but he’s not exceptional. Hunter Davenport is almost as fast as I am, but he’s still young. He’s only a sophomore, with a lot of rough edges that require sharpening. I think next season Briar will be unstoppable with Davenport at the helm. But that’s next season. This season is ours.
“I need you to come in earlier tomorrow morning,” Coach Pedersen says. “Six thirty, okay? I want you to work with Heath one-on-one.”
I nod. I noticed Heath dropping some key passes today. “I’m cool with that.”
“Knew you would be.” He claps me on the shoulder again before stalking off.
I walk toward the lobby of the arena, where Brooks is waiting for me. The moment I reach him, my phone buzzes with an Instagram notification. I rarely use that app, so I’m about to ignore it when I notice the username.
BrenJen.
As in Brenna Jensen?
Curiosity grabs hold of me. “Hey, go on ahead,” I tell Brooks. We’re grabbing lunch at the campus café with a few teammates. “I’ll meet you guys there. Gotta make a call first.”
“Okay.” He gives me a weird look and lumbers off.
I load Instagram and open my DMs. The profile picture for “BrenJen” shows a curtain of dark hair and the hint of a profile. But the red lips are a dead giveaway. It’s definitely Brenna, and the green dot beside her pic tells me she’s online right now.
Connelly. It’s Brenna. Can we meet up?
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. I instantly start typing with total disregard to the long lecture Brooks gave me one night about response etiquette. He has a strict rule about waiting minimum an hour before replying to a chick, so that she doesn’t feel like she’s the one with all the power. But I’m way too curious to abide by that.