Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
While I enjoyed those things in high school and college, I’m done with it now. I fell in love with hockey and my dad's team a long time ago, and it’s always been my plan to work with an NHL team in some capacity.
After I met my best friends Reese and Monroe freshman year, discovering that their degrees would apply to this team too, it’d been a common goal between all of us. And here we were, living the dream.
Monroe was likely already in the facility where she’d set up her recovery room, and Reese had been working on a social media blast plan for three weeks now. I may have given them a referral to Mr. McClaren, but they’d been hired off their own merit—Reese as the new social media manager and Monroe as the Bangor Badgers’ newest massage and recovery therapist.
Of course, for Monroe, she had Pax’s referral too—one of the veterans on this team vouching for her to the new owner. Monroe and Pax had been best friends before we'd even met and him signing with this team brought her out to Maine in the first place.
Somebody clears their throat, and I remember where I'm at. Remember I have a job to do that doesn't require just freestyling on the ice all morning.
I make my way over to the first group that I’ll be working with today, and skid to a halt so fast I spray ice onto the laces of a few players standing in the front row.
One of those players being Lawson freaking Wolfe.
His eyes widen, his lips parting just slightly as shock ripples over his features. “Blakely?”
“Wolfe,” I say with equal calm.
His face is now smooth of any serious emotion beyond a slight smirk shaping those kissable lips. Lips that made my heart race last night.
A shiver snaps down my spine, sending tendrils of heat spiraling beneath my skin. I shake it off, focusing on the fact that he looks completely unfazed seeing me now.
Well, that settles that. I'm sure Lawson has engaged in thousands of kisses with thousands of willing and enthusiastic women. Mine probably didn't even register on the memory scale for him.
Just as well. I'm technically one of his coaches. Whether any of these players will accept that or not, I'm about to find out.
I swallow my nerves and force myself to not think about Lawson’s eyes on me.
“I'm Blakely Wren,” I say, raising my voice so the group of men can hear me in the back. “Like Coach Hardin said, I’m your new skating coach.”
A few rumbles echo from the middle of the group, several of the rookies elbowing each other and rolling their eyes. An unavoidable sting blasts through my chest, but I shove it down. I’ve prepared for this kind of reaction.
“I know what you're all thinking,” I say, slowly gliding back and forth before the group as I do my best to make eye contact with as many of them as I can. “You’re thinking that you're all professional hockey players, signed on at the national level with big, shiny contracts as proof of how great of skaters you are. Am I right?”
“You forgot to mention well-equipped with stick work,” Lawson says, drawing my attention to the left where he stands.
The man oozes sex despite the fact that he’s fully decked out in his hockey gear. His helmet is off, tucked against his side with one arm, leaving every ounce of cockiness evident on his face. His little double entendre comment earns him some laughs from the group, but it gets an eye roll from me.
I skate in front of him, stopping and looking up to meet his gaze. He's easily a foot taller than me in normal shoes, and he towers over me even though we’re both in skates. The man is a giant, but I stare up at him like he's nothing more than a silly little puppy that needs proper training.
“I don't give credit for stick work until I see you in action.”
“Just say the word, damsel,” he says, his voice lowering to a whisper on the nickname he'd given me last night. “And I'll show you all the action you want.”
Heat flashes through me and a flush dusts my cheeks. I hope to fuck that everybody else mistakes it for the chill of the ice on my skin.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” Clay says from where he stands behind Lawson. The tense set of his jaw looks like he wants to smack Lawson upside the head, but he refrains.
I make a mental note to pose a bet with Monroe and Reese later on how long it will take before Clay takes a swing at one of the rookies.
Lawson glances over his shoulder, a glint of mischief in his eyes that says he might argue with his captain, so I take that as my cue to keep talking.