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)
Yeah, I walked right into that one, and he isn’t wrong.
“You don’t need the distraction, and neither does she.”
Again, he isn’t wrong, but as my gaze moves to her once more, I find I don’t care about any of that.
I might not know what I want for the future, but right now, I know I want to know her name.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Ambrosia
Anyone and everyone who is involved in the hockey world, especially the Bellevue Bullies’ world, knows the Sinclair name.
I have seen all of them play. I have cheered for them while eating my nachos and drinking my beer. I scream “Shoot the puck!” at Louis Sinclair more than I care to admit because the dude loves to wait for his moment to shoot. Yes, he scores, and yes, he is amazing, but damn, waiting for him to shoot has had my asshole tight in anticipation.
I have volunteered at Rink & Riffs plenty of times, and when my dad passed, Baylor and Jayden came to bring us food and offer their condolences.
In the last six years, my path has crossed with all the Sinclairs—except for him.
Dawson Sinclair.
When I was at his uncle’s camp, he wasn’t. While I’ve watched him play hockey plenty of times, his focus is on the ice and only on the ice. We haven’t had classes together, nor do we run in the same circles. While we did find ourselves at a party together freshman year, it was a one-time thing and hasn’t happened since. We’ve always been like two passing trains, him going one way, me going the other, and not once have we been at the station at the same time.
Until now.
Not only am I in his presence, but his eyes are squarely on me.
Whoa.
Don’t get me wrong. While I haven’t seen him, that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought of him. That I haven’t followed his career. That I don’t wonder why he hasn’t chosen a sport and if he still struggles with the choice. I follow him on social media, adding to his millions of followers, and I think I bought a fan he was promoting.
It’s a great fan that goes around my neck like a necklace. Keeps me cool when I’m cooking.
Listen, I don’t live under a rock.
Even before his hazel-green gaze met mine, I knew Dawson Sinclair was a walking wet dream. The kind that girls make TikToks about with songs like “Father Figure” by George Michael, and “I Wanna Be Your Slave” by Måneskin.
He is yummy.
Hell, his whole family is hot, and I’m secure enough in myself to say Baylor Sinclair is the hottest, with her flowing brownish-blond hair with gray streaks and hazel eyes, the perfect Cupid’s bow to her lips, and skin that looks more like a baby’s ass than that of a forty-year-old-plus woman. She’s gorgeous, and Dawson, well, he may have his dad’s build, but he is his momma made over.
Since I follow his career, I know his stats. Six feet five inches of pure muscle with a bubble butt that begs to be bitten. Twenty-four-year-old defenseman with a body to block any shot and the tenacity to protect his goalie without a second thought. He has a hard-ass shot too. I think the last time I heard, he was clocking in at 101 miles per hour.
And yet, he wants to play football.
Odd.
Above all that, I know he has a smirk that has made girls lose all sense and drop their panties. I’ve heard them at games, during class, and on social media. There is a Snapchat channel called “Thirsty for Dawson’s Creek.”
Yes, instant eye roll.
Pretty sure his momma didn’t name him that for future sexual innuendo.
But I doubt she enjoys his social media, which is a total thirst trap. He loves to post videos of the food he eats. Boring shit like broccoli and Brussels sprouts that he makes as a salad. Weird. He takes photos of his gear and posts them with one word.
Ball.
Stick.
Cleats.
I’m not kidding. I don’t know if he really is a dumb jock or if he’s just being funny. Either way, it’s fodder for the thirsty females of the world.
Me. I am a thirsty female.
I eat it up, leaving no crumbs behind. I only see photos of his face when someone else takes them. Like his parents.
Yes, I follow them.
Shh, we’re ignoring my obsession, okay?
But in those photos, he’s smiling, a real smile. He has a rather large mouth, but it fits his face and doesn’t make him look like an athletic version of the Joker. Better yet, it leaves me wondering what it’d be like to feel that wide mouth on mine.
Or other places…
Again, I may not have time for guys, but that doesn’t mean I can ignore a mighty fine specimen.
Dawson Sinclair? Yeah, he’s spank-bank material, with deep dimples, bright greenish-brown eyes with long lashes that are wasted on a dude, and a seriousness about him that makes him untouchable. He’s usually really clean-shaven, but today, he has a thick five-o’clock shadow coming in. It makes Dawson appear even older than his brother, leaving Louis to look like a baby, not only in looks but in size too. Dawson has high cheekbones and a straight nose. I don’t know how it hasn’t been broken yet. I don’t think I’ve met a hockey player who has all his teeth and a straight nose, but Dawson does.