Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
So, with Darcy snickering at me, I slipped out of our shared room just after curfew and snuck upstairs to sleep with Chase in his king-sized bed.
Or, well, sleep isn’t exactly the right word for it. Which might be why he’s a little tired right now. Caffeine has been critical for both of us these past few weeks, as we make up for lost time together.
In the cool light of morning, though, I’m all business. I had to ask Coach Fairweather’s permission for this ice time, and I don’t want to waste it.
Which brings us back to Chase’s footwork failures. The passage is a series of side-by-side chassés and rocker turns. It’s not that complicated, it’s not dangerous, and I know he can do it. “Come on. Twice more and you’ll have it.”
“Fine, fine.” He gestures tiredly toward my phone. “Rewind the music.”
I cue up the right section, and we join hands at center ice. This time he nails the footwork, and we advance to my toe loop combination. Since Chase isn’t allowed to jump, he takes a couple of simple turns instead. We hit it in sync, and I land cleanly.
Suddenly there’s a cheer from the bench—other players arriving early for practice.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Ignore them.” He shrugs. “Let’s go once more and link it to the death spiral.”
“Just don’t drop me, or you’ll never live it down.”
“I would never.” He grins.
I restart the music and take his hand, which makes the bench snicker. Ignoring them, we pick up speed and then segue into the footwork. The whoops and hollers from the bench grow louder as we twirl in unison.
After I land my jumps, Chase beckons with a little smile that makes my heart flutter. His expression says We got this. I take his hand again and ease into the death spiral, leaning back into a one-footed position, trusting him to hold me off the surface as I lean way back, carving an arc across the ice.
“Holy shit! Be careful, Coach Carson!” someone shouts from the bench. “Don’t fumble, Merry!”
But he doesn’t, and when I rise at the end of the death spiral, the cheering is loud. “Okay, boys! Who else wants a turn?” I call.
There aren’t any takers. And as we leave the ice, the hockey players glide out to warm up. Chase and I sit down on the bench side by side and unlace our skates. “Come over later?” he asks under his breath.
“You bet,” I whisper. “I have costume options to show you.”
He laughs. “Do they sparkle?”
“Like Vegas after dark,” I tease. “Want me to find you a cup of coffee for real?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “That was just some gratuitous whining. Go write up your scouting reports. See you at lunch?”
“You know it.” Chase glides off in his hockey skates a couple of minutes later before I break down and kiss him goodbye. But that’s a good thing. Chase’s secret girlfriend has to be careful.
On one hand, being with him is so easy again. Every time I walk into a room where he is, I feel happy. But secrecy is tricky, and I’m not sure I’m good at it.
Meanwhile, the uncertainty of where we’ll both be next year is weighing on me. My rapport with the Legends is on an upswing, and I’m desperate for Mr. Sharp to notice. Every player on the roster has spent time with me, some of them frequently. I’ve even got Moreau skating better. But the clock is winding down on the season, and Sharp hasn’t said a peep about extending my contract. Which makes me think he’s interviewing other candidates.
Don’t think about it, I remind myself. It’s just that I’m so damn good at worrying.
My scouting reports are complete by early afternoon. So I print them out in the hotel’s business center, then text Darcy to ask where I can find Mr. Sharp.
She directs me to the twelfth floor, where Sharp is renting a conference room. I find her seated at a makeshift command post outside. Her laptop, phone, and files are spread out on a small desk. “Perfect timing,” she whispers when she spots me. “My bladder is about to burst. Could you watch my stuff for literally two minutes? Sharp’s on a call.”
“Sure.” I slide into her vacant chair as she darts off.
The conference room door is ajar, and I can hear Sharp’s voice droning on to someone about various roster options. “… Yeah, I know. The goalies in Manitoba are hot garbage. Don’t waste my time with Larsson—I wouldn’t take a blow job from him, let alone a player. Now Koszlowski… the kid’s quick but needs seasoning. Maybe in two years…”
I feel sorry for whoever is on the other end of that call.
“… Yeah, let’s go over that. Hang on, let me check something. DARCY! YOU THERE?”