Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 129323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
This girl could be anyone from anywhere. What do I really know about her? Nothing.
I wanna ask. I wanna know more about her. But if I pry into her life, she’ll ask about mine, and that topic is off the table.
“Do you wanna see your room?” I ask, heading toward the dark hallway.
She follows me without a word as we make our way toward the back of the place. We come to the first door, which is farthest from my room.
“That room is used as an office,” I explain, continuing on.
I don’t bother opening the door to show her because there isn’t much to see. A desk. Some files. A futon. That’s it. I would consider myself a minimalist compared to my showboat teammates. When things have to be in a certain order to feel comfortable, you tend to have less, as not to have more to clean, straighten, organize, sort… the list goes on.
When we make it to her room, I pause for a moment. I didn’t get to see what was done beforehand, and now I’m anxious, hoping Angela took her time and made it feel cozy. The need for Cassidy to like this place is so intense, my stomach bottoms out.
“Aiden,” Cassidy prompts. “Everything okay?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah. Fine.” I throw open the door and step out of the way so she can make her way in. Just inside the door, I watch as her head turns around the room, taking in the space. Her space. She inhales deeply and exhales, sounding content. The relief is instant.
She turns to me and smiles. “Thank you. This is perfect.”
I bow my head. “Go ahead and get settled. I need to leave for practice in two hours and have some stuff to do beforehand.”
“Anything I can do to help?” she asks, placing her purse on the bed, made up of ivory bedding that blends in well with the pale gray walls.
I have to give it to Angela. She transformed this space expertly in a very short amount of time.
“Not right now. You’ll need to come with me when I leave, but you should take some time to rest for now.”
She nods, not needing me to elaborate. She knows I’ll have some things I’ll need done.
“I…I’ll see you in a bit.”
She doesn’t say anything, jumping into action, getting her stuff in place.
I take one last look at Cassidy as she rifles through the bags sitting against the dresser, full of clothes waiting to be sorted. She looks at home already.
It feels right to have her here, and that thought almost pisses me off.
“Get your ass moving, Slate. What is this? Amateur hour? You’re slacking, and it’s pissing me off.”
I practically growl, picking up my pace and slicing the ice with my skates. I’m headed toward the goal, ready to tell Coach to fuck off without words. Words will get you nowhere. Goals will.
Tomorrow is game three, which means today Coach gets to torture us during practice.
Mason comes from the left, trying to cut me off, but I pick, stopping in place and spinning to pivot before he even makes it to me. I easily maneuver around him, skating as quickly as I can toward the goal. When I’m close enough, I stop, take aim, and shoot.
There’s your amateur hour, asshole.
“That’s fucking better, Slate. Hit the showers.”
One by one, my teammates head to the locker room as I continue to glide in circles as I wait for everyone to leave. Once I’m the last one still on the ice, I move to leave as well.
“What’s up his ass today?” Mason says. Apparently, he was waiting for me to be done doing my thing. “We haven’t lost yet. He should be in a better fucking mood.”
I glance toward him. “Doesn’t matter that we won. You know how he is.”
He sighs. “I need a goddamn beer.”
Before I step off the ice, I glance up into the stands where Cassidy sat during practice. People aren’t typically allowed in the rink during practice, but Mike negotiated things with Coach, and she’s allowed. There was pissing and moaning from some of the other guys, but they don’t draw in the crowds like I do.
We start to walk, and as we do, we bump into Hudson, who’s leaning against the wall in the hallway.
“You two coming tonight? We’re grabbing drinks at Matteo’s,” he asks.
I lift my brow. “Really think you should be going out before our game tomorrow?”
“Worked well for us last time. You, of all people, shouldn’t want to mess with a thing that seems to be working.”
His comment gives me pause. I’m surprised he’s referencing my “superstitions,” although we both know it’s more than that. It’s a low blow because now that he’s mentioned it, I have no choice but to stop by.
“If we get finished with dinner early enough.” My jaw feels tight. Despite my words, I know I’ll show up.