Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Zara Stone @ZaraStone
When your ex-boyfriend gets engaged, you ask his idol @EvanRichards to be your date to crash his wedding. What do you say? Wanna be my date?
#myexhasapencildick
I chuckle at the hashtag and then look at the name again. Holy shit, Zara Stone. My fingers move across the keyboard before I think about it.
Evan Richards @EvanRichards
Sounds like a plan. DM me.
The minute I send it, my phone blows up, showing me Candace is calling.
“Yo,” I answer, grabbing the bottle of Gatorade next to my gloves, then sitting and taking a drink.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” she shouts, and I can so picture her in the Range Rover I bought her with her glasses on and her makeup and nails perfectly done. I shake my head. I’m the oldest of the three. Chloe is the middle child, and she stays out of my business unless she needs tickets or a reservation somewhere. But Candace is the one always up in my stuff. Okay fine, I pay her to take care of my things, but sometimes, she goes overboard. But she’s knows hockey; I mean, our father played hockey, not pro level, but he played it in college, and then he took on the role of coaching. My uncle is also a huge hockey player, and he only played five games in the NHL.
You would think with a hockey family that I started playing hockey when I was a kid, but I didn’t. When I was thirteen, my father forced me to go play with him and a couple of his friends, and the rest is history. I was drafted forty-fifth. I never thought I would actually play in the NHL, but the team gave me a shot, and at nineteen, I was raising the cup over my head. It was a dream come true. I was traded two years later, and now seven years later, I have a couple of months left on my contract before I’m a free agent.
“What are you talking about?” I try to act stupid, but I know the minute I sent out that tweet, she got a notification on her phone. Laughing, I lean down and untie my skates
“You really want to go on a date with Zara Stone?” She hisses out her name. “I heard she’s a bitch.”
“From who?” I ask her, knowing she doesn’t even know who Zara is. But she has hated every single girlfriend I’ve had. The last one I had four years ago, she threw a party for me when we broke up and posted about it. It did not go over well with my mother, who was pissed at both of us.
“I know people,” she says, and I laugh now loudly so she can hear me. “I’m serious, Evan.” She stops taking. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. You are at the top of your game. You are like the most eligible bachelor out there.”
“Cand, you can relax. It’s just a date. If that even.” I try to talk her off the ledge. My phone beeps, and I see I have an incoming call from an unknown number. “I have to go. Someone is calling me.”
“Okay, are we still on for tacos?” she asks.
“Yes meet me at my house,” I tell her and then accept the other call. “Hello?”
“Hey Evans,” the male voice says, and I think I know who it is, but I’m not sure. “It’s Grant, Matthew Grant.” Holy shit. So Zara’s father is the Cooper Stone—he’s basically a hockey god or idol with more records than any other hockey player out there—and Matthew is her brother. From what I hear, you don’t fuck with him, but apparently, his other sister dated his arch nemesis under his nose.
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to laugh at how crazy my life has gotten in the past ten minutes.
“You know why I’m calling?” he says, and I hear guys talking in the back. He’s probably at practice also.
“I have an idea,” I tell him.
“So we are on the same page,” he says, and I have no idea what book he’s reading. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, and he disconnects.
“What the fuck just happened?” I ask and don’t expect anyone to answer, but Brett, my closest teammate and partner in crime on the ice, answers me.
“You just put another nail in your coffin.” He laughs, and I get up, moving my skates out of the way, and pull my jersey off, tossing it in the big bin in the middle of the room.
“It’s one date. Jesus,” I tell him, and he just shakes his head.
“Have you seen her?” he asks me, and I shake my head.
“I mean, maybe in passing,” I tell him and then grab my phone and go back to Twitter and click on Zara’s picture. It fills my screen in the little circle, and I have to sit down. I swear I hold my breath when I see her. Her strawberry blond hair covers half her face and half her lips. Her gaze is aimed at the camera, and I swear it feels like she’s staring straight at me. I zoom in and see her eyes look gray, and her lips are plump and half open. She isn’t pretty, and she isn’t beautiful. Exquisite is the only word that comes to mind.