Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
My chest flips, my body urging me to say yes. But something nags at me. Is he offering because he thinks he’s failed? If this is an ego thing for him…I don’t think his plan will work. “But why? Why do you want to get me there?” I ask.
He stops, tilts his head, studies my face. “Because, call me crazy, but I have a feeling you’ve been dating the wrong kind of guys.”
“What gave it away?”
“I’ve dated the wrong people too.”
I was not expecting that. He seems so carefree, the kind of guy who breezes through life and rarely makes choices that irk him. “Really?” I ask as we resume our pace.
“Yeah. Really.” He takes a deep breath, looks away, then back at me. “I don’t trust a lot of people. I trust my family. My friends. My team. But when I date, I wind up…forgetting that. Trusting the wrong people. People who want the idea of the athlete rather than the reality.”
That’s an interesting way to put it. “The fantasy of the hot hockey player?”
“Your words.”
I let my eyes roam pointedly up and down his muscular body. “You’re hot. Empirically.”
An eyebrow arches in challenge. “Just empirically?”
“Fine. Empirically and actually,” I say, faux begrudgingly.
“There. That wasn’t so hard.” He squeezes my shoulder, and I do like this affectionate side of him—the way touching comes naturally to him in a way it doesn’t to me. He continues, “Anyway, I wind up dating women who don’t want the reality. The guy who’s traveling, who’s dealing with tired muscles, needing lots of sleep, time to practice. Someone who’s obsessed with the job. But I have to be. I take care of my family. I’m the one who’s going to put my little sisters through college. I’m the one who helps my mom out because she deserves it.” There’s passion in his voice, but frustration too.
“You do that for them?” I ask, touched by his caretaking.
“Of course,” he says, but not like there was no choice—more like it’s one he was grateful to make. “My mom’s the best. She’s my biggest fan. All of our biggest fans. She came to every single game of mine, and she went to every play Maggie performed in, and helped on every science project Maya worked on, and she made sure we helped around the house, and she was just…there.”
My heart squeezes from the lovely, affectionate way he talks about the women in his life. He’s the opposite of my ex. Hollis is the kind of guy who seems to deeply understand what makes a woman tick.
“That’s what matters most of the time, I think,” I say slowly, thoughtfully. “That someone is there.”
He nods, meeting my gaze with fondness in his eyes. “Definitely.”
“But you find people don’t really understand what makes you tick?”
He sighs, resigned. “Yeah. I do. Most women, for whatever reason, don’t want the real guy behind the jersey. They don’t want to hear about how I feel when we lose. When everything in my body aches after a game. When the media rips us apart.” He offers a what can you do shrug. “So I became the guy who’s happy all the time.”
A new realization clangs loudly, like a gong. Hollis is the easygoing athlete, but he’s also carrying a heavy weight of responsibility. I’m the calm and confident yoga teacher, but I’m wary of people. We both wear masks. “You know something about faking it too,” I say gently, bumping his shoulder in solidarity, I suppose.
“I do. Sometimes it’s easier to be that happy guy than show what stresses me out. So I get it. I’ve wound up with the wrong people as well.” We turn down the block, Donut sniffing trim hedges in front of a bungalow with a red mailbox. “I guess…I see a little of myself in you.”
It’s a little scary, this connection between us. But what’s even scarier is the possibility of showing him how I want to be touched.
And yet, I desperately want to be touched. I draw a deep breath, and even as dread fills me, I say the hard thing anyway. “I want to feel good in bed. I want to say what I like. To open up. I just don’t know if I can.” I swallow past my nerves and my fears. “But I’d like to try.”
His smile is like the morning sun—bright and unstoppable. He leans into me and sweeps a few strands of hair over my ear, his fingers gliding across my skin. “I’m very, very patient,” he whispers, in a husky voice that thrums through my bones.
Then settles between my thighs like a pulse.
“Me too,” I say, and it feels like a promise we’ve both made—to be real.
“And, you know, I’m pretty sure a good boyfriend would listen in bed,” he adds, making it crystal clear he’s RSVPing to the contest too.