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)
She tsks at me. “Sure. Come with me.”
As I follow her into her office, my stomach twists on itself.
I wish I were anywhere but here.
But mainly, I wish I were with Dawson.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Dawson
One would have thought that after doing some short-distance throws, progressing ten yards each time, then going into my hip drills, my mind would be clear.
When it isn’t, I decide to run five miles. Surely that will get my mind right. I will stop overthinking, and then I can go to bed.
But with each mile, I swear it gets worse.
It isn’t even the crazy train of emotions that Ambrosia sent me on. No, I feel I’m handling that like a fucking pro.
Confused? Fuck yeah.
Excited? Yup, that too.
I know. Who am I?
So it isn’t Ambrosia who has me pushing my body to exhaustion. Even if I haven’t seen her in three days, I know things are going in my favor.
It’s my dad.
“Let the backup QB play for the next three games. You need to save your body for the NHL draft.”
I had every intention of ignoring him since I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions, but my dad knew I’d do that. So he took it upon himself to go to Coach Bannard. Since Coach Bannard knows the goal is the NHL, he told me he agrees with sitting me on the games with the lower-ranked teams but using me for the higher-ranked ones since we’re undefeated right now.
Problem is, I want to stay undefeated. I have faith that Blake Odemen is a damn good quarterback and he will make some damn good throws, but he sucks in the pocket. He’s not quick on his feet. He will take the tackle instead of running from it like I do. He’s known to fumble when he’s in a pinch, and I want this championship.
But I know I can’t do it all.
Maybe I should just walk away. The Jags dropped their interest, leaving only two NFL teams. I wouldn’t even go first round in the NFL, maybe fourth—when I know I’ll go second round in the NHL. Or I could say fuck it all and go straight into sports ethics. I’ve done an internship with the Tennessee chapter of SafeSport. I am nowhere near the number of hours as my peers, but I have a decent amount. I could intern for a year and then apply for a full-time position.
I have money saved up from all my NIL agreements. I can sign up for summer camps with Ashlyn and get paid that way too. While we aren’t sure where Louis will end up since we know it won’t be the Assassins, he’ll let me keep the condo we have. We talked about selling it since we’d both be drafted and it’s paid off.
I could buy him out.
I could stay in Nashville.
I have options.
Yet I feel like everything is a fucking mess.
Which is why I’m at the rink.
Football didn’t help.
Running didn’t help.
I would go find someone to hook up with, but that hasn’t been appealing for a while. Plus, unless she has a big butt and a story about why her name is Ambrosia, I don’t want her. Since said girl with the story doesn’t trust me at the moment, I am here for the feel of my skates on the ice and the sounds of my stick hitting some rubber to try to calm me.
I tuck my sticks under my arms and reach for a bucket of pucks before I head toward the smaller practice rink. It only has one bench that is for the skaters and then a set of wooden bleachers that is used for the spectators. No one ever comes in here because it’s old and danky. I won’t even have a goal; I’ll be using the puck bucket for scoring practice, but I don’t care. I just need the ice.
The lights are on, the ice shining from where the Zamboni just cleaned it.
And it’s all mine.
I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the frosty air. When I was younger, Louis and I would play in here while our dad and mom would run practices in the bigger rinks. While other hockey players might have had an ice pond growing up, Louis and I had this practice ice. Just walking in here gives me a sense of peace.
The door to the bench is open, as is the one to the ice, but I don’t make it past the bench before I know I’m not alone. I can’t even explain why I look to the left, but I do. And there she is.
My heart-stopper.
Ambrosia has her chin on her arms, which are resting on her knees as she looks out at the ice. She’s wearing some sweats that are entirely too big on her and hanging low to expose the honey-colored flesh along her hips. She has a delectable little roll that covers a string from what my lusty imagination says is her thong undies.