Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
The quick response is on the tip of my tongue. “That can’t be true. You’re hot.”
Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this.
Why the fuck not? a little voice says. I think it’s coming from my dick.
Clark continues to stare blankly at me, as if he’s having the same war going on in his head as I am, but when he opens his mouth and I expect him to say we should get out of here, that’s not at all what comes out. “Ollie, I need you to know something. More specifically, I need you to know my real name.”
“Okaaay.” I drag out the word, confused by what his name has to do with anything.
His eyes widen as a hand lands on my shoulder.
“Great, you two have met,” my agent, Damon, says next to me.
“Beatle!” Matt Jackson’s husband says and crash-tackles Clark into a hug.
Beetle? What type of name is Beetle?
“We were supposed to meet?” I manage to ask.
“Ollie, this is Lennon Hawkins,” Damon says. “He’s a friend and works for Sporting Health Magazine.”
My head spins, all the blood drains from my face, and I barely hear anything past Lennon’s name.
Lennon. Fucking. Hawkins.
Suddenly, I know why I had issues with those articles. The reason it seemed like they knew my secret is because the person behind them does.
“You? You wrote those articles about me?”
I’m so pucked.
Chapter Four
LENNON
My palms sweat. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I feel like I’m back in high school, surrounded by jocks who wanna pick on the gay kid. Only this time, it’s not because I’m gay. It’s because I’m—
“A reporter,” Ollie says, his jaw tight. “You’re a reporter.”
“Not the kind you’re thinking,” Damon says. “He’s a decent one.”
The flirty guy I’ve been talking to is replaced with an angry bear of a hockey player. “Decent? Lennon Hawkins thinks I’m a talentless pigeon.”
What the fuck? “Whoa, I did not write that.”
Ollie pales even more. “R-reporter,” he whispers, no doubt realizing someone in the media knows his biggest secret.
I wonder if he’s doing what I’ve been doing ever since he bumped into me—remembering what his mouth tastes like. His strong hands, hard body … Focus, Lennon!
“I work for Sporting Health,” I emphasize. “We’re not a tabloid.” I will not out you I want to say but can’t with Damon and Noah here.
Ollie shakes his head, abandons his drink, and walks away before I get a chance to explain. Damon calls after him, but Ollie’s massive body doesn’t slow down.
I’ve been preparing for this meeting ever since my editor reassigned me to hockey after I started writing articles about Ollie. The past six months have been a whirlwind, and I never meant for this to happen. I wrote the first article on a whim, because I found myself going home every night and watching old clips of Ollie’s games. He has so much fucking talent it’d make any sports fanatic cry to see how amazing he is on the ice. But that’s the thing; no one was seeing it, because Tommy Novak’s star shines too bright.
My articles on him got a lot of hits, more than any article the regular hockey guy had written recently, so as easy as that, Harry gave me the Eastern Conference to cover while Kevin got moved aside. He’s still covering the Western Conference, but he’s about as happy with the move as I was. I had little say in being transferred from baseball and football. That’s how my industry works. Shit pay, unstable jobs, and cutthroat coworkers who’ll steal your job if you drop the proverbial ball. Not that I meant to be cutthroat. I wrote an article, saved it in the work cloud thinking I could maybe pitch it to my editor or shop it around to other magazines for freelance pay, and then the next day, I had a phone call from Harry asking why I’d never expressed my interest in covering hockey before.
Because I’d never had a hockey player’s tongue down my throat before.
Now my editor has sent me to follow the Dragons’ journey to the playoffs.
I’d totally blame this run-in on fate being an asshole—I was never supposed to see Ollie again—but I can’t really do that. I’m the one who wrote that article because I couldn’t help stalking him and his career.
If anything, I should call myself an asshole for putting us both in this situation.
I thought I’d have a few more days before I’d need to explain, though. I was ready to meet him at the arena and tell him the deal and reassure him. In private. Running into him here, and then the way his face lit up when he saw me, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not right away. I wanted that spark, that connection we had six months ago, to last a little bit longer.