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)
“Actually,” she says, but her expression is soft and so is her voice, “there’s something I need to discuss with you.”
That sounds serious. “Let me guess. I’m in trouble again.”
“Would that even matter?”
“Probably not,” I reply before she pulls me aside outside the arena entrance to a quieter area.
She moves closer to me now, so close I’m distracted by the whoosh of her hair in that high ponytail, the way it swishes as she moves into my space. “Lyra’s in town. I don’t know if you know.”
The blood drains from my face. “Seriously?” I croak out.
It’s not my ex I don’t want to see. I’m so over the woman I was going to propose to.
It’s the attention that comes with her. The attention that comes to me. I’d give my left nut if it would erase from existence the breakup song she wrote about me. The one that was a lie. But, then again, I like both nuts a whole helluva lot. Maybe I’d give up my spleen to make “Surprise Me” disappear from every playlist in the world and public memory.
“She’s doing a surprise show,” Everly adds.
“How nice,” I mutter.
“I’ve got it covered,” she says, then holds up a finger. Quickly, she scans her phone, then looks up. “I checked with security for the Seattle team. There’s a back exit out of the locker room that’ll help you avoid the press. I can let the team bus know what time and to look for you, and you should be able to leave unnoticed after the game.”
Wow. I’m seriously grateful for that. And for what’s unsaid. She won’t even ask me to talk to the media tonight. “Thanks. Appreciate it,” I say, then I square my shoulders. “I do.”
“And don’t worry. This changes nothing.” She narrows her eyes and holds up a finger. “You get one night off from my requests. And then it is on again.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
She’s made a one-upmanship-style approach of asking me to talk to the press after every single game even though I’ve made it crystal clear I don’t do media.
This is merely a brief detente—not an end to our battle. Then, because she might have noticed I’m holding two cups, I thrust one her way. “For some reason, they gave me two London fog lattes,” I say, then offer one of the Earl Grey concoctions to her. “You like them, right?”
Curiosity flickers across her eyes, and she studies me for a beat, her lips curving up. “I do.”
“Cool,” I say, waggling the cup. “It’s yours then.”
She takes it. “Thanks. They’re my favorite.”
“Even better,” I say, as if I didn’t know that already.
Once inside, she heads one way and I go the other way to the locker room, then hit the ice, the one place where no one really bothers me.
That evening, the Seattle winger barrels toward me, swift, determined. But I’m not in the mood to let any goals in.
Nothing to do but deflect the puck.
A minute later, one of their guys is flying around the back of the net, flipping the little black disc to a forward who aims then shoots.
Not on my watch. I drop to my knees, my leg pad blocking the shot.
Better luck next time.
And the next time, the puck flies at me and I knock it down, where it lands harmlessly on the ice.
For another period, they come at me, as they should. But I’m feeling impenetrable tonight.
Imagine that.
By the time the game clock winds down, I swear every player in their lineup has tried and failed to take a shot.
When the buzzer blares, I’ve nabbed a shutout.
My closest friends on the team, Wesley Bryant and Asher Callahan, skate over to me, clapping me on the back as we head off the ice.
In the tunnel, I rip off my helmet, and as promised, Everly’s waiting at the end. She gives a crisp nod, and I nod right back, then move on as she asks some of the other guys to talk to the media. Technically, all players are supposed to be accessible.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in my suit and out of there, earbuds in, an online course playing that I really need to focus on as I head for the team bus that’ll take us to the airport.
But when I hop on it, the driver is nodding her head, rocking out to “Surprise Me.” It’s so loud, I can hear it even as the instructor in my ears rattles on about navigational tools used in the eighteenth century.
“Can you shut that off?” I ask.
“Lyra? No way. She’s the best,” the driver says, but then her eyes widen, her lips part, and something must click. “Oh. Shit. You’re…”
Yeah, I’m the guy who inspired the break-up song that America’s sweetheart sent to the top of the charts. Only that’s not the way things went down.