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)
“Not the adversary report!” Sharp barks. “I wanted the scouting report! And where’s the damn bus?”
She whispers a curse under her breath. “On it!” she calls back. To me she says, “The team driver was sick, there’s a storm brewing over the plains, and Mr. Bossypants is on a tear—”
The phone on her desk trills again.
Darcy squints at the caller ID and closes her eyes briefly, as if in pain. “Hell. This is the third time she’s called today.” Darcy grabs the phone and answers it. She negotiates with the caller for a moment and then frowns. “If it’s really that urgent, let me see if he can be located. Hold, please.” She taps a button.
“DARCY!” bellows Sharp. “NOW! We’re leaving in five!”
“Anything I can do to help?” I offer.
She takes a deep breath. “Oh God, yes. Can you poke your head into the players’ lounge and tell Chase Merritt that he’s wanted in the GM’s office?”
“Chase Merritt?” I gulp.
“Yeah—winger? High scorer last year? Eyes like the Caribbean Sea?” She pounds on her computer keyboard like it’s on fire. “The GM doesn’t really need him, but I’m tired of answering calls for him.”
I take a step back from her desk, as if to put distance between Darcy and this unfortunate request. “Um…”
“Please? First round’s on me tonight,” she says, hitting print on a document and then running toward the printer. “I’ll be your best friend!”
Shit! Panicking, I walk slowly toward the players’ lounge. Maybe I won’t be able to find him.
No such luck, though. My gaze finds him immediately. If picking Chase Merritt out of a crowd were an Olympic sport, I’d have the gold medal. It’s always been like this. From the tilt of his rugged chin, to the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. I see it all, and I can’t look away. Even from across the room, I notice the confident set of his shoulders and the way his hair—the color of darkened wheat—curls against the back of his kissable neck.
Hell.
I glance toward Darcy’s desk again. She’s watching me through the glass. And when I hesitate, she points frantically toward Chase.
So I take a breath and step forward. For years I’ve pictured the moment when I’d get one more chance to speak to him. I’ve played this like a movie in my mind—what I wanted to say and how he might respond. It never looked anything like this.
But I close the distance anyway. He’s standing with the team captain, mid-conversation, a smirk playing at his mouth.
My expression softens automatically. It doesn’t matter how nervous I am right now, because the greediest corner of my heart still craves this. I thought I’d never see Chase again, yet here we are.
Then he turns, and our gazes meet. Finally.
Except it’s worse than I expected. Because Chase Merritt stares back at me with fury burning in his deep blue eyes.
Clearly I’ve made a colossal mistake.
Chapter 2
Nine and a Half Years Ago
June
Backpack over his shoulder, Chase Merritt whistles as he leaves the gym, his muscles twitching from that last set of squats. It’s June, so he’s had the Western Massachusetts University weight room mostly to himself.
His hockey teammates back in Minnesota would have a good laugh if they could see him pulling open the door of the arena under the Ice Dreams Figure Skating Camp banner.
He doesn’t much care, though. Working here for eight weeks as an assistant coach and camp counselor means free room and board, gym access, ice time, and a paycheck, with every penny heading straight into his depleted bank account. The camp even paid him gas money for the trip out here.
Best side hustle ever.
As he reaches the lobby, the familiar scent of rink ice washes over him—cold air and sharpened blades, with notes of old popcorn and socks. All his best moments have happened in places just like this one.
Before he can reach the rink, though, a woman flags him down. She’s a ponytailed volunteer sitting in front of an array of ID tags on colorful lanyards. And he doesn’t miss the way her eyes widen when he stops at her table.
“Well, hi,” she says, with a skittering gaze that takes in his sweaty T-shirt. “This is, um, a figure skating camp.”
“I know,” he says, holding back a smile. “Last name is Merritt.”
She blinks. “Oh.” After a beat, she looks down at the table and plucks his ID off it. “Sorry. And you’re an assistant coach, too.” She hands him the red lanyard, and the ID inside reads STAFF. “I’ve got your handbook. And what’s your T-shirt size? They run small.”
“Then let’s go with extra large.”
She hands over an orange T-shirt and directs him to where coaches and campers are gathering.
He heads for the open door to the arena, shoving the shirt and the handbook—which is surprisingly thick—into his backpack. The rules of his eight-week tenure here have already been made clear to him by his college hockey coach, who got him this job. Coach Walsh’s sister is the woman who runs this camp.