Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 53034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
He’s a good guy, but he’s not one of my coaches and I’m not letting him treat me like he is. There’s a team hierarchy, and he’s not close to the top.
An hour into skating, I’m gassed. I’ve sweated through the front and back of my T-shirt and I’ve got swamp ass. We’re leaving for a road trip tomorrow—surely Turner doesn’t want his top blueliner exhausted.
I won’t puke. Some guys puke during bag skates, but I never have. If Turner wants to push me that hard, he’s going to wear me down to nothing and I won’t be able to play tomorrow.
It’s been almost an hour and a half, and I’m fucking wiped and in desperate need of water when Turner walks onto the ice and motions with his hand for me to come over.
Thank fuck. I dig in and skate my fastest to him, making sure the snow my blades throw up doesn’t go in his direction.
He passes me a water bottle. I take it, breathing so hard I can’t take a drink yet.
“This was mostly about my daughter,” he says. “Never, ever touch her again.”
I nod. “I understand, Coach.”
He pinches his brows together and frowns—my cue to shut the fuck up.
“It’s also about the other women you were talking to. Goddammit, Beaumont, you’re not some nineteen-year-old minor leaguer trying to jump into bed with every woman who’s willing. You’re a twenty-seven-year-old pro who gets paid a hell of a lot of money to be on this team. Don’t fucking embarrass me and the city you represent like that again. Women shouldn’t be getting into bar fights over you.”
“Yes, Coach.”
They weren’t fighting over me, but Turner has a short list of what he calls “the last bad idea you’ll ever have as a player for me”, and one of them is arguing with him. Occasionally, he’ll give us permission to challenge him, but it’s rare.
“Go watch your film,” he says. “Then have Melina work on your legs and feet.”
I nod, lifting the water bottle to squirt water in my mouth. Melina’s our team trainer, and she’s great at massaging overworked legs and feet to keep us from getting too sore.
I take a long drink, downing half of the bottle of water. Sweat drips from my chin and hair onto the ice. I use my soaked T-shirt to wipe my face, and by the time I’m done, my teammates are skating onto the ice for drills.
My teammate Bash smirks at me as he passes.
“You’re one stupid motherfucker,” he says.
I flip him off, my quads burning with exertion.
“Coach’s daughter?” our goalie, Isaac, asks, holding back a laugh. “Really?”
“I didn’t know, asshole,” I bark. “I’ll stick with your mom from now on. Is it weird for you that she calls me daddy?”
“Fuck you, Beaumont.”
I skate away from him, too tired for any more verbal sparring. I’ll need a nap as soon as I get home today, because our departure time is early tomorrow. Today is my back and shoulders training day, which is a small win. I couldn’t do leg day today.
My legs are a little shaky as I leave the ice. Melina will have me switching between the cold plunge pool and the hot tub while I watch my film from last night’s game.
Lesson learned, though. I’ll never so much as look at one of Turner’s daughters again.
Chapter Three
Talia
* * *
The earthy scent of brewing coffee pulls me from sleep the next morning. I crack my eyelids open slightly to gauge the time of day. It’s not bright yet, but the sun is up.
Dad must drink dark coffee these days, because the smell is powerful even in the upstairs bedroom I’m sleeping in with the door closed. I groan and pull the covers back up to my neck.
“Hey, you’re up.” My father is leaning against the frame of the door to the room, which is very much open. “Morning.” He walks into the room and sets a steaming mug of coffee on my bedside table.
“What?” I croak as I squint against the light, my eyes fully open now. “It’s early.”
“We’re leaving in forty-five minutes. You’ve got time to shower and pack before breakfast is ready.”
I give him a confused look. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You are, though.” His voice has a chipper edge to it. “You’re coming to work with me.”
I hum with amusement. “Oh, is it bring your hot mess daughter to work day? Everyone already knows I’m a disaster, so we can skip that.”
He walks over to the other side of the room and opens the blinds, light flooding the room. I protest with a dramatic groan.
“I don’t get up this early. Leave me alone.”
“Tally, you’re welcome to stay with me for as long as you want, but your days of rotting in bed all day are over.”
Ugh, this is the last thing I’m up for. My dad thinks he can bring me out of my perpetual bad mood by spending time with me, and he’s so far off. What I need is to be left alone.