Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
It’s day four of training camp, and I’ve got nothing scheduled until this afternoon when the goalies will have devoted ice time with Baden. I’m expecting a myriad of drills to help him decide what order to play us during preseason.
I’m humble enough to know that I’m not a shoo-in for the starting slot, and I’ll give more than a hundred and ten percent this afternoon, as I’ve done all training camp. It’s felt fucking good to be back on the ice, and I’m pleased I’m not as rusty as I thought I’d be.
Since this afternoon won’t be physically demanding, concentrating more on finite skills than endurance, I need to get in a good workout this morning.
While the general lighting throughout the arena is always on, I’d expected the workout room to be dark when I arrived. I didn’t see any other cars in the lot, yet the inside is ablaze.
As soon as I walk in, my eyes scan the area and when I see her, I almost walk right back out again.
Goddamn Brienne Norcross is on a stair climber, her back to me. I’d recognize that shade of silvery blond anywhere, but more than anything, I recognize her bearing. Shoulders back, determination in her steps, and an aura of doggedness, even as she attacks her workout.
She’s wearing a pair of black leggings that reach her ankles and a red racer-back top that comes down just to her lower ribs, leaving some skin on display.
I almost leave because my traitorous body reacts to seeing her there. It’s not that her clothing is overtly sexy—it’s what women typically wear to the gym. It’s not even how fine her ass looks as she trudges up the rotating stairs.
It’s that I’ve been thinking far too much about our encounter in her office three days ago when she almost tugged my shirt down to see my tattoos. It was a mere few seconds of our time together, and yet I can’t stop the replay in my head, wondering what would have happened if she’d made a move.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. I glance at my watch and consider going for a run along the river, but I didn’t want to do cardio today. I’ll get plenty of it this afternoon and wanted to do some lifting.
I harden my resolve and send a word of warning from my brain down to my dick. I move to the warm-up bikes, situated past the stair climbers, but I don’t want to startle Brienne. She needs to know someone’s in here with her, and as I get closer, I see she’s got earbuds in, so she won’t hear me coming.
Swinging a wide arc so I’m not close to her when she sees me in her peripheral vision, I wait for her to notice me. She jolts slightly, eyes widening.
I hold up my hand in a casual wave but keep walking right past her. I don’t glance to see if she waves back.
The warm-up bike I choose is angled away from her as I don’t want to look her way. I don’t want her to think I’m even remotely interested.
I last a full five minutes on a slow cycle with high tension to warm up my legs. I nab my small duffel that holds a few towels and my water bottle and give a casual turn her way since that’s the direction I need to go to hit the free weights.
And… she’s gone.
I ignore the mild pang of disappointment and head across the facility, past two TRX cages, a slew of cardio equipment, and stands of dumbbells and kettle balls.
Once again, I’m brought up short when I see Brienne at a squat rack, loading up a barbell.
I watch as she puts on ten, thirty… forty pounds on each side, which, along with the bar, equals a hundred and twenty-five pounds. It’s not overly heavy, even for a woman, but I don’t know her experience.
She steps up to the rack, ducks under the barbell, and raises her body until it’s resting on her upper back.
Before her hands curl around the metal, I call out, “You really need a spotter.”
She doesn’t even so much as flinch and definitely doesn’t look my way. Fucking earbuds.
I watch with slight nervousness as she pushes the weight off the hooks and steps back a few feet. She executes nearly flawless squats—ten total, which tells me that’s not an uncomfortable weight for her—before racking the barbell again.
She steps aside for a rest and bends to grab her water bottle, and I move in her direction. Once again, I arc around so as not to startle her.
When she sees me, she offers a thin smile and pulls out her earbuds. “Good morning.”
“Good morning. You should really have a spotter.” Not exactly true because the weight she squatted was safe, and she clearly knows what the hell she’s doing. But this lets me initiate conversation.