Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
His confidence in me is almost unbearable. I’ve spent so long convincing myself that I couldn’t have things like this—dreams, plans, a future that didn’t feel aimless. And now here he is, casually believing in me like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Okay,” I say finally, the word trembling on the edge of something bigger. It’s not just a promise to him, it’s a promise to myself. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” he says, his grin morphing into something that feels more like relief than victory.
I nudge him, needing to break the intensity of the moment before I drown in it. “Can we get out of the cold now?”
North’s eyes roam my face and he brushes a lock of hair behind my ear. The intimate gesture makes me shiver and that has nothing to do with the temperature. “I suppose you’ve been a good girl. Let’s go grocery shopping. I’ll cook for you tonight.”
“Deal,” I reply, pushing up from the bench and holding my hand out to him. It’s the first time I’ve initiated any form of PDA. “Although… calling me a good girl has me thinking of other things you could do for me.”
North laughs and tugs me down the path back toward the arena. “You’re incorrigible and that’s not something I would ever change about you.”
Something has shifted inside me. For the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m running on empty. I feel steady, like maybe, just maybe, I’m finally ready to stop being afraid.
As we head back to the truck, he mentions the next two home games. They’ve got back-to-backs starting tomorrow with the LA Demons, followed by the Carolina Cold Fury.
Listening to him, I can’t help but feel a little of that excitement too. For the first time in a long time, I wonder if maybe I could feel that way about something again. Maybe it’s time to start figuring out what that something might be.
CHAPTER 23
North
I really love coming to Mario’s and if we’re here, it means we won. If we lose, we’re licking our wounds, usually at home.
We didn’t have a place like this when I played for the Seattle Storm and I’m not sure why. I love having a place where we can choose to interact with the fans in a bit more of a close-up manner than just hurried autographs outside the players’ parking garage. Of course, there are the times we like more anonymity, so we head to Stevie’s bar.
Our victory over the LA Demons tonight was a decisive 5–0 massacre, which helps alleviate the sting of our losses in the last three games. Drake is riding high on his shutout and almost the entire team and their significant others came out tonight. But the evening is getting late and most are heading home.
Farren and I are finishing up our drinks at one of the high-top tables. Atlas is with us and Rafferty just left to go home. While I love that he’s got a woman like Tempe in his life right now, he’s admittedly having a bit of a hard time with her gone and didn’t want to hang out too long. I feel for the guy and wonder how I’d feel if Farren moved away.
It would fucking suck.
While I’m careful not to show any overt PDA with Farren, because she’s still firmly against that when hanging with the team, she is standing very close beside me with our elbows touching where they rest on the table.
She’s sipping a margarita, her gaze flicking across the room now and then.
“I’m telling you, that was not icing,” Atlas says, gesturing with his beer. “The refs were blind tonight.”
I snort with amusement. “Funny how you think they were blind when you get called on something, but they see just fine on all the calls that went our way.”
Farren laughs, her hand idly tracing patterns on the edge of her glass. “Don’t tell me you don’t do the same thing, North Paquette.” She bumps me with her hip playfully. “I know my brother sure as hell does that.”
“Yeah, we probably all do it,” I grumble.
“North!” A woman’s voice cuts through the noise, and I glance up to see a tall blond standing on the other side of the velvet rope that sets our tables apart from the rest of the bar. She’s dressed to kill—tight jeans, a low-cut top and heels that look like they could double as weapons. Her gaze moves to Atlas, and she smiles at him. “Think I could grab some pics with you?”
Atlas grins at me and in a low voice says, “That looks like trouble.”
“With a capital T,” I gripe, already bracing myself.
This sort of thing happens all the time and ordinarily, I laugh it off. But the blond has that look in her eyes that she wants more than a photo and I’ve got my girl standing beside me.