Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
But damn it, I love the feel of the pigskin in my hand. The way my cleats bury into the turf. The anticipation of getting tackled and the adrenaline of my receiver catching my throw?
Yeah, it’s amazing.
Phillipe, ever the people pleaser, gives my dad a wink. “I’ll work on him.”
Before I can defend myself or even try to smooth over the situation, I hear my mom’s voice. “Jay, we have that meeting. She’s waiting on us.”
Dad stands up and nods. I look back to my mom to find that she’s in her teal leggings and oversized Bullies sweatshirt. She has her glasses on with her hair up in a tight bun. She waves her hand in greeting to her left, and when I look at where she is waving, my heart stops dead in my chest.
Like, full-out fucking stops.
I feel like the offensive line didn’t hold back an outside linebacker and my ass slammed into the grass.
Or better yet, a two-hundred-pound fucking goon got me against the boards.
Shit, both.
At. The. Same. Damn. Time.
I think I may have died.
But I’m breathing.
Then my heart kicks up, pounding so hard my vision is vibrating as my eyes lock with a pair of whiskey-brown ones that are framed in sooty, thick black lashes. My mouth goes dry, and I earnestly drink in the gorgeous woman before me like my life depends on it. Her skin is the color of the lightest caramel, her face is round, her lips heart-shaped and bright pink with gloss. Her wild mane of dark curls sits in a pile on her head with a few strands falling along her plump cheeks and temples. I want to curl a piece around my finger and yank it to bring her to me to taste that pouty mouth of hers.
Not to sound like a cliché, but I’ve seen my fair share of girls and women, but none, and I mean none, has ever made my heart kick up the way it is right now.
My eyes move along her shapely body, taking in her ample chest that stretches the fabric of her bright-pink dress shirt that is tucked into a pair of wide-legged black slacks. The pants are tight around her waist and hips, showing off all kinds of curves that are begging to be held on to. The fabric strains against her thighs in the most mouthwatering way. I wonder what it’d feel like to be between them, her thighs squeezing my ears and then my hips.
Whoa.
Ears, absolutely, suffocate me. But hips…that’s a new thought.
But I can’t help it, she’s a walking dessert.
She looks me up and down just as greedily. Her pupils dilate as her lips part just a bit. When her tongue peeks out, wetting her already glossed lips, I’m a fucking goner. I preen under her gorgeous gaze. I have to have seen her before. She has to be my age, maybe a bit younger. She has to go here because I see her Bullies’ badge. So I know her, right? Surely I’ve talked to her because a goddess like that needs to be worshipped. But where? I know those eyes. Don’t I? Or…fuck… She’s got me all fucking fumbling!
“Who is that?” I gasp, to which Louis laughs beside me.
“Damn, I’ve never seen you with that look,” Louis teases, and I smack his chest guard in answer. “Hell, even I need to meet the chick that’s figuratively knocked Dawson on his ass.”
Dad pulls his brows together, meeting my gaze before shaking his head. “I don’t know that look, but I know your record. Stay away from her.”
With that, he starts out of the bench. I stand, reaching to stop him. “What? For real?”
Dad looks back at where Mom is greeting her before meeting my gaze again. “Remember Rowe Mercer?”
“Yeah,” I answer automatically.
Rowe was my mentor at Rink & Riffs. He didn’t come to the camp often, but when he did, he was a good time. He played in the NHL for a long time and retired well into his forties. He was named one of the best teammates in the league, and everyone loved playing with him. Great dude, but he passed away a while back from a heart attack. He and my dad were good friends when they played together, and after, Dad was the reason that Rowe volunteered his time at Rink & Riffs. “What does he have to do with her?”
“That’s his daughter,” Dad says, giving me a narrow-eyed look, much to my surprise.
I hadn’t known he had a daughter; he never spoke of her. Not that we ever spoke of anything other than hockey.
Dad sets me with a no-nonsense look. “Stay away from her. She’s going places and knows what she wants.”
I feign hurt. “Wow, am I not going anywhere?”
“Not if you don’t make a choice.”