Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Or hardly working,” I joke, keeping it casual. I nod to the end of the corridor, a subtle sign I should go.
But maybe he doesn’t do subtle since he doesn’t let up. “Anything you need in the equipment room?”
The dude doesn’t sound suspicious, but the fact that he’s asking the question tells me he is.
Think fast.
This fucker wants Everly’s job. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her from him. “Actually, I need a Sharpie. I was going to sign a hockey stick for you to give away during the next home game. If you want to, that is?”
Here’s hoping a distraction play works.
His gray eyes pop. A smile forms on his face, big and wide. “I’ve got a Sharpie on me.”
“Great. Then I can do it now.”
I head back into the equipment room, grab a stick, and return to the hall, signing it for the guy I hate, then thrusting it at him. “Here you go.”
“I seriously appreciate this so much,” he says, beaming, and I guess the play worked.
“Happy to help,” I say, then nod to the exit. “Got to catch the bus.”
“Have a great road trip.”
“We will.” I take off, but make a speedy pit stop in the locker room before I go. If I’m fast, I’ll have just enough time.
25
THE REAL CLICHÉ
Everly
I’m still amped up a half hour later, even after I’ve edited then posted the video of Max’s comment on the team’s social media. I’ll put it on his feed in the morning. With that done, I slide into bed in a cami and sleep shorts. I open the nightstand drawer, reaching for my favorite toy, then stop. I should take a picture now for him. Since, well, these panties are coming off in three, two, one…
But my phone buzzes before I set up the shot. A text from Max lights the screen.
Max: There’s a package coming to you in ten minutes. Local courier. Can you meet the driver at the door?
I have no idea what it could be but I’m sure I want it.
Everly: Yes.
I grab a hoodie and tug it on, then wait for a notification that the driver’s arrived. When it lands, I race downstairs and open the front door. A man in a ball cap hands me a gift bag that’s stapled closed and says, “Here you go.”
Anticipation curls through my veins as I rush back upstairs to my home. The second I’m inside, I rip open the staples, and…I know. My nose twitches, and I jam my hand in the bag faster than a kid dipping her paw into a cookie jar. When I pull out the delivery, I swallow roughly.
It’s his shirt. The one he wore tonight after the game. The white dress shirt, and it smells like his cologne. I bring it to my nose. I close my eyes, feeling weak in the best of ways. Feeling woozy as I savor the scent of him. What is he even wearing right now on the team plane? No idea, but I guess he has multiple dress shirts in his stall and grabbed another one so he could send this to me—and send it quickly. But then again, services like Uber Connect are ridiculously fast.
When I open my eyes, I feel like I’m melting. I’m not sure I can walk. My phone buzzes again. Tingles spread down my spine as I open the next message.
Max: Wear it to bed. Send me that picture. Because you’re so incredibly beautiful, I can’t stop thinking about you. Guess I’m bad at resisting. But you know that.
With the shirt clasped to my chest, I walk to my bedroom in some kind of trance. I set the shirt down on the bed, pull off the hoodie and cami, then strip off my sleep shorts. Briefly, I glance at the wooden box on the lower shelf of the nightstand—the one with the Post-it notes.
All those say yeses.
“That’s the problem. I keep saying yes,” I whisper to my silent home.
But Max makes me feel pretty and powerful. And that’s catnip, so I say yes one more time.
Tomorrow I’ll do better. Tomorrow I’ll be done with this dangerous tryst. For one more night, I’ll say yes—this time to wearing his clothes that smell like him. I slide my arms into his shirt, turning my neck to the collar. The shirt hits me at the thighs, and I love how big it is. I’m wrapped up in him, in his scent, in the memory.
Briefly, I contemplate buttoning the shirt before I snap a pic.
But instead, I sit on the edge of the bed, arranging it so it covers up all the places I don’t want him to see—my upper arm, then the scar on my left shoulder. The one he possibly caught a small glimpse of. I’m not sure how I’d handle it if he saw more. The memory of Gunnar’s shock still stings.