Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Me: I had no idea you felt like that. You always seem like you’ve got your shit together. You’re always smiling.
Mostly.
Er.
Sort of.
Easton: Looks can be deceiving, and hockey is a great outlet. That’s what my dad says LOL. Like he would know.
That makes me smile.
Strangely enough, hearing that Easton doesn’t have everything figured out makes me feel closer to him. Not that I want to put words in his mouth, but it’s like we’re both pretending we know what we’re doing, even when we’re completely lost. Or scared.
Me: Have you thought about talking to your parents?
Easton: Is that a joke???
Easton: Why the hell would I talk to them about my feelings?
That makes me laugh and I giggle on my bed, biting my bottom lip.
Me: I’m serious. Maybe if you told them how stressed out you are they’d back off?
Easton: If I told them WHY I was stressed then I’d have to admit I was a freaking idiot and they’d freak out. If I told them I was overwhelmed by hockey and graduating, they’d just say I need to manage my time better or something. NO thanks.
Me: But what if they don’t? What if they’re supportive?
Easton: They won’t be.
Me: That’s not fair…
Easton: Well. That’s my life.
God, I wish I knew what to say to make him feel better.
Me: You know you don’t have to be perfect, right?
Easton: I know. It feels like I do, though.
Aww, this poor guy! His words hits me harder than I expect. I can’t imagine what it must be like to play a sport, have a scholarship to play that sport in college, get good grades—and then worry about the cops arresting me for a dumb crime I committed after being peer pressured!
Me: You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Easton. Not to your parents. Not to anyone.
There’s a long pause, and once again I wonder if I’ve said too much. But then, finally, his reply comes in.
Easton: I mean—I do have to prove myself to State. They’ve giving me a full ride. But…I get what you mean.
Easton: It means a lot, coming from you.
My stomach twists, and I stare at the message for a second longer than normal.
Me: Coming from me? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
Does his comment mean that he values what I think? Or that he’s surprised I’d even say something like that? Also, WHY DO I ALWAYS OVERTHINK EVERYTHING?
His reply buzzes almost immediately, as if he was waiting to clarify and knew I’d ask.
Ha.
He knows me.
Easton: It’s a good thing. You’re, like, the least judgmental person I know. It’s…nice talking about serious stuff like this with you. Ha.
Me: Don’t lie—I’m NOT the least judgmental person you know. I know for a fact that sometimes you think I’m an asshole.
Easton: Maybe, but at least you’re like…I don’t know. Solid.
Solid.
I hold the phone out and study that last text. Solid. My brain goes over all the things that could mean: Reliable. Steadfast. A friend.
Easton: Don’t take that the wrong way.
He is literally reading my mind.
Easton: I know you took that the wrong way.
Me: Ha ha. But also: CORRECT.
Easton: Hey.
Me: What?
Easton: I’m heading to the rink for a scrimmage if you wanna watch.
Me: Tonight??? Now?
Easton: Sure, why not? We can make up for last time. If you’re down?
Chapter 26
Easton
Never have I ever invited a female to watch me play hockey, let alone specifically to watch practice.
But here we are.
I skate in lazy circles, sneaking glances at Harper as she leans against the half wall at the home bench, eyes following me every now and then when she thinks I’m not looking.
Macy stands next to her, scrolling through her phone with an air of indifference, but Harper is the only one I care about. Bundled up in a black winter coat, matching mittens, and a cute fuzzy hat that makes her look like she stepped out of a winter postcard, she’s the picture of cozy warmth against the chill of the rink.
She rests her mittens on the edge as she chats with her best friend, cheeks flushing from the cold—or maybe because she’s excited to be here?
Who knows.
All I know is that I want her undivided attention.
I want her here for a reason, though I haven’t completely figured out what that reason is. Maybe it’s because when she looks at me, I feel a buzz under my skin that has my body running a little hotter despite the cold. Is she noticing the way my shoulders flex when I turn? Has she noticed the way my thighs burn with each deep push?
I steal a glance as I skate past—fast enough that she won’t catch me looking. She’s chatting with Macy, but her gaze flicks toward me for the briefest second. There it is again, that stupid heat low in my stomach, curling into my chest, making my heart pump harder than the skating does.