Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
My older cousin is a type A psycho. I don’t get it; her parents are so go with the flow, and Jamieson, her brother? Coolest dude ever. He is a damn good time and, again, goes with the flow. He followed in my aunt Avery’s footsteps, writing music with new, up-and-coming artists. We don’t see him much since he’s always traveling, but when we do, he’s cool as hell. The whole family takes nothing too seriously, but Ashlyn? I swear she makes more notes on her phone than she texts or calls anyone. Don’t get me wrong. I love my cousin, but damn, if she doesn’t drive me nuts.
She stands on the bench of the practice rink with her hands on her hips as her voice carries over the ice. “I am talking to you, Dawson!”
I roll my eyes before looking over my shoulder at her. She’s wearing her normal clothes, some ankle pants with bright-green Converse that she’s been drawing on since she was fifteen and a bright-green Rink & Riffs Camp shirt that hugs her shoulders and waist. I have it on good authority that she has her family’s camp shirts on recycle, but this one looks more professional, with a collar and a pocket below the logo of an acoustic guitar turning into a hockey stick. She has the Sinclair green eyes, her mom’s nose, and her dad’s impatience. Her hair is light brown with pastel pink at the ends that brushes her shoulders, and she glares at me with nothing but annoyance in her eyes.
Did she tell me she was coming if I didn’t answer the phone? Sure.
Would I rather work on my one-timer than talk to her? All day, buddy.
“Ash, I’m busy.”
“I don’t care,” she snaps, throwing up her hands, looking every bit like a chihuahua with anxiety. Her eyes are wide, crazed, as if she’s ten seconds from tackling me on the ice and making me agree to what she wants. “I need to lock down the details.”
I turn away from her, ignoring Louis’s laughter. He leans on his stick, watching the ass-chewing she promised unfold. “This isn’t happening until next summer. Why do you need to lock down anything?”
“Because it’s a big deal!” she yells, her voice pitching higher. “This will be a huge camp event. I have six draftees on the roster, and I need to know you are committed. Louis committed. I have to work on marketing, get donors. I need your name on the list so I can get more money!”
I flash my brother a look, and he shrugs. His dark hair has fallen into his green eyes from under his helmet, while his wide-set mouth is turned up in a smirk. He mirrors my dad out of the two of us, with hard lines to his face and a square jaw. My features are softer like my mom’s, but thankfully, I still look like a dude. “Just answer the phone when she calls, and you wouldn’t be chased down.”
I roll my eyes before setting her with a pleading look. I have enough going on without her harassing me. “Ash, I don’t know what is happening. Everything is up in the air. I doubt my name will bring in more people.”
Her face is turning redder than a tomato. She takes the job of camp director way too seriously, in my opinion. “I thought you were picking hockey?”
I swing my stick, sailing the puck wide of where my buddy stands in goal. He didn’t even flinch. Almost like he knew I was going to send it wide. Instead, he is leaning on the goal like he’s lounging by the pool instead of wearing full goalie gear and blocking pucks.
When I said I was coming in to shoot around after having lunch with him, he said he’d come block for me. His eyes aren’t on the puck—or even me, for that matter—they’re on Ashlyn. Even through his mask, I can see the appreciation in his glacier-blue eyes.
I bring in my brows. How could anyone find her attractive? She’s a walking red flag. What’s that saying? If her name starts with A, run the other way?
If that were on a billboard, Ashlyn would be the model.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Jesus, you’re more indecisive than a kid in a toy store,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. Even if you go NFL, people will love training with someone who did dual sports throughout college.” She taps her chin, and I groan inwardly. I hate that look. It’s her “I’m cooking up an idea no one but I will like.” She throws her arms up in triumph, to which I groan loudly. “We can have a dual-sport Q&A! Or even a seminar about it! How you don’t have to pick. You can do both if you do XYZ like Dawson Sinclair.”