Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Tonight, he’s going to fuck me. And who knows? Maybe after, he’ll let me fuck him.
The thought sends a shiver through me right as my phone lights up.
Asher: Did the equipment manager remember all the equipment this time?
I almost laugh, then remember Dad is sitting beside me. The message is innocent—seemingly—but he’s still going to want to know what Asher is doing texting me if he sees it.
Me: A whole box. I’m prepared to study all night if we need to.
Asher: You think you can compete with an athlete’s stamina?
Me: You’re about to find out.
I quickly put my phone away because the last thing I need is to pop a boner while I’m sitting next to Dad. And when he starts to talk me through what he needs when we reach the arena, it’s enough to kill off any thoughts of what Asher and I have planned for later.
This time, I didn’t even bring my notes with me.
I’m more than prepared to keep incentivizing his studying, but tonight is all about sex. Only sex.
My dick tries to take interest at that thought, but then Dad mentions something about the New Hampshire facilities, and I quickly turn my thoughts to gross gym socks in an attempt to make it go down.
Only a few hours to go.
Until Asher is inside me.
Goddamn it, where’s a cold shower when you need one?
The game against New Hampshire is intense. They’re stuck at two for two from the first period right through to the third. Both teams are getting tired and sloppy, but there’s only one goal in it.
I’m totally not holding my breath. Or invested.
Nope.
But I can’t tear my eyes away from Asher. He and Simms are flying down the ice, passing the puck back and forth so quickly the New Hampshire players can’t keep up, and then …
Asher passes to Simms, and Simms takes a shot on goal. It happens so fast. The puck flies past the goalie, landing in the net, and everyone’s on their feet.
Everyone except for Asher.
I know this because even though everyone’s focus was on the goal, mine was on him. One of the New Hampshire players bodychecked Asher hard, and he fell like a lead balloon. He didn’t even have time to get his hands down and crashed headfirst on the ice.
And he hasn’t gotten back up.
“Shit.”
Dad’s straight out there when he realizes something’s wrong. I’m desperate to follow, but I keep my feet rooted to the ground, barely breathing, reminding myself that showing any more concern than I would for any other player would be suspicious as fuck.
Asher wouldn’t like that.
So instead, I grip the barrier and pretend like I’m not feeling sick right now.
Like there isn’t an enormous lump in my goddamn throat.
Dad shifts, and when I see that Asher is conscious and moving, I almost sag in relief.
But then Dad walks him off and sends Rossi out instead. I realize Asher’s not going back out there, and my relief is short-lived.
Asher’s walking fine on his own with his head held high. That’s a good sign, at least.
The team trainer is waiting, so I don’t even get a second to chat to Asher before they’re walking with him down the chute. Keeping my voice as even as I can, I hook my thumb over my shoulder. “Want me to go with?” I ask Dad.
“Yeah, you better. Make sure he’s okay. I’ll come check on him once this is over.”
He’s barely finished his sentence before I leave.
I find Asher, Beck, and the trainer in the locker room. I hang back at the doors, waiting for them to finish examining him.
“His responses look good,” the trainer says. “He didn’t lose consciousness, he’s showing no signs of concussion, but he did hit his head. That means—”
“Mandatory concussion protocols,” Beck finishes.
Asher slumps. “Are you shitting me? I’m fine.”
“Probably,” Beck says. “You’re still out until at least tomorrow, and then we’ll reassess.”
“We’ll lose if I don’t play!”
“Then you better come back strong next week. And stay on your damn skates.”
There’s more low conversation that I can’t hear, but I figure the important part is over, so I join them.
“How is he?” I ask, like I haven’t heard everything.
“Unfortunately, he’s still an asshole, so I think he’ll be fine,” Beck says.
Asher flips Beck the bird as the trainer leaves.
“That’s a flippant attitude for someone on concussion watch,” I say sweetly.
“You room with him, don’t you?” Beck suddenly asks.
“Yep.”
“Do you want me to switch out with you so you’re not babysitting him all night?”
“Nope.” I somehow pull off a casual tone. “We’ve covered some stuff on brain injuries in class.”
“Have you met Asher? He’s a handful.”
“You’re talking as if I’m not right here,” Asher complains.
I ignore him. “I’ll keep him in line.”
Beck assesses me for a second, and for one wild moment, I think I’ve given away too much, but it’s not like there’s much to give away. We’ve made each other come a few times, no biggie.