Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
The team is on the cusp of failure and the only thing lower than their number of wins last season is their ticket sales. But thanks to me, that’s all about to change. Nothing will stand in my way of turning us into a winning team…
Until a stranger who gives me the hottest kiss of my life turns out to be my new skate coach.
Blakely Wren is gorgeous, funny, and brilliant on the ice. Her figure skating days have made her a perfect asset for the Badgers, and her take-no-prisoners attitude has me signing up for more lessons than necessary.
Things heat up between us the more time we spend on the ice, and soon it’s not just the Stanley Cup I want to win this season—it’s her heart.
Only problem?
She’s completely off-limits and has a toxic past that’s made her wary of all things relationship. She’s hiding something too, and her secret is big enough to put both our jobs on the line.
And in the end, I’ll have to choose—the girl of my dreams or the career I’ve worked my entire life for.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
LAWSON
“To me,” I say, holding up my glass filled with the bar’s signature rum cocktail. It’ll be the only alcohol I’ll allow myself tonight. “Because I'll be the one leading us to victory this season. You’re welcome.”
I glance over the array of faces looking at me in disbelief. There’s a decent mixture of newly acquired players—myself included—and Bangor Badgers veterans.
We crowd one of Bangor’s oldest and most popular bars, The Queen’s Rum. The local hotspot is nestled in a historical brick building perched along the Penobscot river, not two miles from the town’s beloved statue of Paul Bunyan. I’ve only lived here a little over a week, just after I got drafted, but I'd be lying if I said the statue didn't freak me out. I blame that terror on Stephen King.
“You really think you’ll be the one to break our losing streak?” Nash Stokehill asks. He’s one of the Badgers’ veterans.
“They drafted me first, didn’t they? Couldn’t resist my college stats, which include eleven goals and thirty-nine assists just last season, pushing me toward playmaker of the year, in case any of you didn’t Google me.”
“Stats don’t mean everything,” Nash fires back. “And neither does vying for having the biggest dick in the locker room.” He rolls his eyes, looking like he’ll say more, but two beautiful brunettes walk past our group, making their way to the indoor miniature golf course set up across the bar, and his entire demeanor changes. He flashes the women a smile and a wink, making them giggle.
Huh, guess the rumors about Stokehill being a legendary fuckboy are true. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but my focus is on winning this season.
“For those of you like me who are new this season,” I continue while I still have the attention of most of the team. “I get where you’re at. We were drafted onto the worst NHL team in the league, and most of us would accept a trade deal to just about any other team in a nanosecond, but that changes now. I don’t know what’s been happening the last few years, but I’m ready to bring in some wins. It’s what I’m used to. So each and every one of you better bring your A game. I’ll be damned if my talent is wasted.”
Several of the new recruits nod and voice their agreement. They all have a hunger in their eyes that matches mine, but a low, gruff laugh sounds to my right, and I cock an eyebrow that direction.
“Already talking like you're the fucking captain when you're not.” Clay Kiplin—the Bangor Badgers’ resident asshole—flashes me a glare that’s enough to make me stand up a little straighter and hope to fuck he doesn't notice.
He is the Badgers’ captain, and I respect that.
But he's been captaining a losing team.
I'm not saying it all falls on him, but I won't know what the fuck is wrong with this team until I get on the ice with them.
“We've had plenty of cocky little shits stumble onto the ice and say they're the key to turning this team around. Seen lots of cocky little shits get traded too. Maybe save your bravado for practice tomorrow.”
“Can you even really call it practice?” I fire back.
We'd all been summoned to Bangor, Maine, weeks ahead of the regular practice schedule. The new owner made it mandatory that we attend a little impromptu training camp before actual practice starts in anticipation for pre-season. The e-mail mentioned something about a new skating coach and drills the owner wants us to master.
“Yeah, I can,” Clay says. He sits rigid in his chair, his back pressed against a wooden pillar, his drink untouched on the little table before him.