Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
He takes it from me with a closed-mouth smile. “Thanks, honey. You’re a real lifesaver.” His gaze falls from me to Taylor. “Hey, I haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been, Taylor?”
“I’ve been around. Busy with school and basketball.”
“Still working on your jump shot?”
She bobs her head. “Yep. I got it down pat now.”
He winks at her, and then turns to me, studying my face. “How was practice? Looks like you got a nice shiner forming on your cheek… and your lip. What happened? You look like you went a few rounds with Hopkins.”
I laugh at his boxing joke. “Practice was fine. Could have been better. But, at least I’ll have a cool battle scar.”
My dad inspects the gash, shaking his head. “I wish you’d be more careful. You can be so rough.”
“Basketball is a rough sport,” I shoot back. “I’m not some delicate flower, Dad. I can take a punch, or in this case, an elbow.”
“You were never delicate, that’s for sure.” He sighs as if he regrets turning me into a tomboy.
Before my mother left us, she had me prancing around in floral dresses and ballet flats. Yuck. I never liked ballet or dresses. Track pants and T-shirts are more my speed. My dad was right to raise me the way he did. If my mom had stuck around, I would have been pretending to be someone I wasn’t to make her happy. And I would have hated every second of it.
“Are you staying until practice is over?”
I shrug. “I guess we can hang around a little while longer. Not like we have anything better to do.”
“That’s the spirit.” He slaps me on the back like I’m one of the guys. “I could use another set of eyes on the team. This game is going to be tough for us.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Me neither,” Taylor adds.
Dad forces a smile and slides his hands to his hip. Biting the inside of his cheek, he seems nervous. More anxious than I’ve seen him in a long time. Glancing at the ice, his gaze travels between various players landing on no one in particular.
With the game a few days away, he’s on edge, even though he would never admit it. It’s the first home game of the season and his first as the new head coach. NCAA announcers will talk about his role whether they win or lose. And even more so if they lose.
I tap my dad on the shoulder. “Everything will work out. I have a good feeling about the game.”
Dad grins. “Me, too.”
We’re almost the same height, my dad maybe three inches taller, our eyes nearly level to one another. I might have gotten my looks from my mom, but I have his height and athleticism. It wasn’t easy being five feet ten inches in high school. Kids picked on me. Most of the guys were shorter than me.
I learned to develop a thick skin because of it. Class pictures were interesting. Teachers forced me to stand at the back of the line with the boys arranging us in order of height.
Dad blows the whistle around his neck signaling for the guys to come over to the bench. “I have to get going, honey. Take a seat over there.” He points to the first row of seats. “I’ll meet you there after we’re done. Maybe we can get dinner if you want. Taylor, you can come, too.”
“Yeah, that sounds good, Dad.” I push my hand out to shoo him away, and then he’s gone back to coaching his team.
I tug on Taylor’s arm to move her toward our seats.
“You have an admirer,” she informs me.
I glance over at the bench to see Preston staring at me. Hard. His gaze is intense, his deep blue eyes fixed on me. He winks. Why did he have to do that? I refuse to return his gesture or even acknowledge him. Last night I was rude and said whatever had come to mind. It was my way of keeping him at a distance.
A guy like Preston will be the death of me. I have no room in my life for players—both on and off the court. Or in Preston’s case, the ice. But I can’t help feeling something for him. He didn’t have to offer for me to meet his mom. Preston doesn’t owe me a damn thing. Maybe I can be a little bit nicer without breaking the rules.
“The way he’s looking at you is giving me chills,” Taylor says, entranced by Preston. “What I wouldn’t give to have someone look at me like that.”
She’s not wrong about him. When Preston looks at me, he undresses me with his eyes. My skin pricks with tiny bumps which spread down my arms. He glares at me like a piece of meat as if he’s a starved animal, and he wants to sink his teeth into me.