Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Damn.
He was young.
Way younger than anybody I usually went for, and way younger than me. Normally if a man didn’t have a salt-and-pepper vibe, he barely moved the needle for me. But this guy had a commanding confidence about him, even at his age.
He shrugged off his leather jacket, revealing intricate tattoos along one of his muscled arms. It was beautiful, colorful art, a collection of ink going all the way up and under the sleeve of his grey T-shirt.
“Plow!” another young guy in a jersey said as he walked past the bar and reached out to clap the tattooed guy on the back. “You’re the man. That hat trick was killer, back in December.”
Hat trick?
December?
Who the hell was this guy?
He gave the other guy a little salute and a polite nod. “Next season will be even better.”
“I’ll be there!” the other guy said as he walked off toward the door, waving goodbye.
Oh, God. He’s not just young.
He’s still in college.
That explained the muscle, too—he was a TNU hockey player. I’d heard a few people talking about college hockey outside earlier tonight, mentioning “the Plow,” but I hadn’t realized he was actually here. Tennessee North University was fairly close by, but usually the Hard Spot was full of people more like… me.
Ranchers. Farmers. People who rode horses or drove trucks.
“The Plow,” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Where does that come from?”
He gave me a little shrug. “Just something they call me out on the ice.”
I could tell he was acting humble. People who are good at something might brag about it—but people who are really good at something don’t usually need to.
Just walk away, Mason. He doesn’t need to hear your opinions on—
“I have exactly one opinion on hockey,” I said.
Back in high school, I’d been awarded Most Social for a reason. Right now, this hockey player was like a bright, pretty flower, and I was a butterfly who couldn’t resist. If I was being awkward, I didn’t care.
Nobody liked being alone in a bar, anyway.
He pushed a lock of his dark hair back, revealing smooth skin. “What’s your one hockey opinion?”
“That the puck looks delicious.”
He looked at me like he was waiting for a punchline. “I have heard a lot of takes on hockey, but that is new.”
“You can’t tell me that those pucks don't look like little chocolate Hostess cakes.”
“That’s what you think of when you watch hockey, huh?”
“I don’t watch it. Don’t even know the rules. But when I’ve seen clips, to me, it’s a bunch of hot, angry men fighting over a Hostess cake. Think about it, next time you’re on the ice.”
He nodded. “Touché, cowboy.”
He was looking at the bar top again, his dark lashes pointed down. I was starting to get a sense that there was something weighing on him.
Maybe it was the first time he’d come to a bar alone in a while. Or, sure, maybe he was an anti-social, standoffish prick.
But… maybe he was just sad.
“It’s okay if you’re a designated driver, by the way,” I told him. “I could buy you an iced tea or a Coke or ten plates of nachos. The offer still stands.”
If he was bothered, it didn’t show. “You sure are offering a lot of people free drinks tonight,” he said. “When you don't have your ass up in the air, that is.”
“And you’re doing a lot of brooding tonight, when you’re not glaring at me outside like a scolding teacher.”
His guarded expression disappeared, like I’d finally said something that got him interested.
“Is that how you feel? Scolded?” he asked. “Just because you didn’t get all my attention like everybody else out there?”
I furrowed my brow. “Do you hate fun, or something?”
“I don't hate fun.” He looked me over, now, glancing down at the open buttons at the top of my shirt. “I can be a lot of fun, actually. Don’t have to chug cocktails upside-down for it, though.”
Fuck.
I’d been expecting… well, I’d expected him to be brooding and cold, not to get cocky and a little flirty.
“Then what do you do for fun?”
He smiled, and a dimple appeared on one side of his mouth. “I take a long wooden stick and smack it all over ice, trying to chase a hard little Hostess cupcake.”
“And getting all the attention from hordes of cheering TNU hockey fans in the audience, I assume,” I said. “You might not get upside-down, but you like the attention too.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Guess we’re both attention whores.”
“Hey, I’m not an attention whore, I’m just a… fun whore, I guess?”
“That just sounds wrong.”
“It really does. Shit.”
He held up a hand. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
Well. I need to have fun, because if I don’t, I feel like my world is collapsing around me. I fill my life with fun so that I can forget.