Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“In trouble already, Pidge?” Jaxson asked when I skated out.
“Nope. Just stepping in as Tampa’s shiny new toy.”
He cocked a brow.
“Some reporter is going to follow me around for a month,” I said nonchalantly. Then, I lowered my voice so Coach wouldn’t grill my ass for interrupting his practice. “Remember the girl in the yellow dress at the gala?”
“Like any of us could forget.”
“She’s the one.”
“Proposing already?” He smirked.
I flattened my lips. “She’s the reporter, the one who’s doing the piece.”
Both of his brows shot up at that. “You mean she’s going to be the one following you around?”
I nodded.
“What all does this entail, exactly? Like just here at the rink?”
“Everything,” I said. “Practice, travel, home games and away games, too. My life on the road. My life here in the city.”
“Like… twenty-four seven?”
“Apparently.”
A shit-eating grin curled on Jaxson’s face. “Interesting.”
I just nodded with a smile of my own.
Interesting, indeed.
Take Your Best Shot
Maven
Nothing annoyed me more than the fact that I was shaking like a leaf when I stepped onto the elevator the first morning of my new assignment. The lovely gentleman from the front desk had personally escorted me on, holding the door for me before pushing the button for Vince’s floor once I was inside. When the doors closed again, I blew out a frustrated breath.
I’d barely slept, my mind racing with the kind of anxiety only an unknown assignment with very high expectations could bring. Reya and Camilla were depending on me to hit this out of the park, and I couldn’t let anything distract me.
Least of all, the pouty-lipped rich boy I was assigned to cover.
My eyes snagged on my reflection in the elevator mirrors, and I felt a little better that at least I looked put together.
Colorful palazzo pants hugged my flat stomach and narrow hips before flowing down my legs, the rich oranges and purples and turquoise designs weaving together in the most gorgeous way. I’d paired a delicate white top with it, the straps thin and stretching over my collarbone, and just a sliver of my stomach showing.
My ink black hair was in its natural state, the curls airy and shaped around my face with the perfect volume, despite Florida’s humidity doing its damndest to make it frizz. I had what I called a five-minute makeup routine that mostly consisted of tinted moisturizer, brow gel, and mascara, but I’d run a shiny gloss over my lips and added my favorite gold hoops to my ears as a final touch.
I looked calm, confident, and beautiful.
I just needed that to permeate a few layers deeper so I felt all those things, too.
I could almost see my parents and their confused expressions in my mind, the look they gave me when I told them I was going to college instead of into the Peace Corps, the one they gave me when I graduated and told them I was going to focus on building my brand on social media, the one they gave me most recently when I told them I was the newest addition to the Babes.
They watched me like they had no clue what the hell I was doing with my life.
Sadly, they weren’t wrong.
I was in a strange predicament — walking into a literal dream job with my stomach churning. I felt torn, like two halves of a fragile paper heart. Because although I was making more money than I’d ever known I could earn on my own and I loved the work I did, I felt almost… guilty.
Like it wasn’t enough.
Like I wasn’t enough.
What was I doing to better the world, to help people, to make a difference?
Add in the fact that my new subject had a particularly unsettling effect on me, and you could say I was having a little meltdown in that elegant elevator thrusting me toward my impending doom.
“Get it together, Maven,” I coached myself, shaking out my wrists. The bangles on the left one made a tinkling sound as I did. “You are a bad ass, independent woman who can do anything. You are a professional. And he’s just a boy with a stick.”
My throat thickened with those words because Vince Tanev was far from a boy.
And as if he’d heard the words and was intent on proving me wrong, he answered his door shirtless, in nothing but a thin pair of dark green pajama pants that rested so low on his hips, I could see the band of his briefs beneath them.
“Well, good morning, sunshine,” he greeted, holding the door open farther as if I was supposed to come inside. The motion set his biceps on display, his massive palm flat on the door and propping it wide.
His hair that had been carefully styled at the gala was a chaotic mess now, the brown and gold strands of it sticking up this way and that. He looked like he’d either just woken up, or just rolled around in the sheets with a passionate lover.