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)
“Of course, I've noticed,” I say, continuing at a slow glide, me moving forward, him moving backward. “I've spent more than two minutes with you.”
That earns me a genuine smile that I hate to say makes my knees a little weak. Thank goodness the rest of the players have already moved on to their next station or I’d be terrified of somebody catching me going all melty for our number one draft pick.
“You don't need to apologize,” I continue. “You need to work. You need to practice the things I've told you. You honestly have the makings of an unstoppable skater, which would be invaluable to this team, but you're letting your ego get in the way of that.”
Lawson blows out a breath, then nods. “Let me take private lessons,” he says.
A laugh rips from my lips. “You're joking,” I say through my laughter. “You give me enough hell during team lessons. You've said so time and again that you don't need my help.”
“I'm being serious,” he says, and it takes me a minute to realize that he’s actually looking at me with sincerity in his eyes.
The look is so new I'm totally taken aback.
“You honestly want me to coach you privately?”
His smile turns just the side of lustful, and warm shivers dance down my spine. “I do. And not for the reason you're thinking,” he quickly adds, raising his hands as we continue to skate. “But because you're right. I want this team to win.”
My lips part in shock. “Say that last part again,” I demand.
“I want this team to win,” he says, and I shake my head.
“No, the part right before that.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, one hundred percent,” I say, smiling despite myself. “If you want me to even entertain giving you private lessons, I need to hear it again.”
“You're right,” he says, and while it might have been fun and games before, hearing those words come out of his mouth does something to my body.
I hope it doesn't show.
I hope he can't tell the effect he has on me.
He must take my hesitation for a denial, because he hurries to continue. “Please,” he says, the word coming out of his mouth shocking me once again. “I promise I won't try anything funny. I know I've been joking with you at practice, but it actually does mean something to me to improve my skills. I always want to get better and even though I think I'm the best, I'm willing to try.”
“Wow, so the overconfident player is capable of practicing humility.” I hate how much I like that.
“Come on,” he says, turning up the charm factor. “There has to be something you want, something I can help you with that will convince you to forget all the reasons why you shouldn't coach me alone.”
My earlier conversation with my friends comes back front and center as does the anxiety clinging to my insides regarding the text that sprung the conversation.
“Ohh,” he says, his eyes brightening as he points at me. “There is. I can tell. Name it, Coach. You need money? I can pay you.”
“The Badgers pay me,” I fire back.
“Then what is it?”
“It's...” I shake my head, having a hard-as-hell time trying to find the words. Am I actually about to ask for this? “I can't,” I say.
“Sure you can,” he says. “I need something, you need something. That's how deals work.”
“It's ridiculous,” I say.
His grin widens. “What is it? You need me to organize your closet and do your laundry?”
I laugh, shaking my head.
“Tell me.”
I bite my lower lip, wondering how pathetic this is going to sound when I open my mouth—
“Tell me, damsel,” he says, stopping suddenly. He catches me against his body, barely budging as our skating comes to a quick stop. His hands are on my arms, the heat searing as little sparks shoot along my nerves. He's looking down at me, those hazel eyes filled with want and sincerity and I just can't take my eyes off of him. “Tell me,” he says again.
We may be standing on the ice, but our bodies are flush from the momentum. All those feelings from a week ago resurface, unfurling with a hunger that almost hurts.
“I have some events that I have to go to,” I admit. “I'm speaking at a few of them at the college.”
Lawson cocks an eyebrow as he looks down at me, still not letting me go. “And you need someone that looks as good as me to be on your arm?”
“Something like that,” I say, nerves tangling in my stomach.
“Ohh,” he says, recognition clicking. “You need me to play that little part we played at The Queens Rum, don't you?”
“I told you it was ridiculous.”
“Douchebag’s still bothering you, huh?”
I look down, studying the way our skates are almost intertwined, but Lawson tips my chin up to meet his eyes. “Is he?” he presses.