Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 90364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Fuuuck.
My thoughts are on a constant loop of the same thing. Should I or shouldn’t I? Pros and cons—and the fact the cons column outnumbers the pros by a lot should make the decision far easier than it is.
By the time I finally pull up at the hotel, I’ve made a decision. A decision that really shouldn’t have taken me five hours to come up with:
I’ll wait and see what happens.
I never claimed to be a genius.
Back at practice, nothing is overwhelmingly different, but there’s a shift I can feel in the locker room. It’s like the air between me and Ezra is electrified. I wish I could ignore it or go back to that place where I couldn’t stand the guy.
His attitude overrides anything else, but then he’ll make an awesome save on the ice, or I’ll remember the way that kid thanked him or focus on that teeny-tiny sliver of vulnerability he showed when he was drunk that first night together.
But whatever conflicting thoughts I might have, my one certainty is that we need to get along for the team’s sake. And maybe because I want to get along in general.
So when I approach him on the way off the ice after practice, I drop the usual hostility we have with each other. “You skated well today.” The words taste like chalk in my mouth. Complimenting Ezra goes against every natural instinct I have.
He glances over at me. “Is this you lulling me into a false sense of security before you stab me with a skate?”
“Come on, Ez …” I slap him on the back. “Our skates are nowhere near sharp enough to make it through your thick skull.”
“Seriously. What do you want?”
To go back in time and never start this conversation?
“You wanna be a dickhead, fine. Don’t worry about it.” I go to stalk off, but Ezra grabs my practice jersey and pulls me to a stop.
“Can you really blame me for being suspicious? All you do is remind me that I’m a fuckboy who doesn’t take hockey seriously and is a subpar player.”
I grin. “But you are those things.”
He flips me off, and I don’t blame him. “Yet you slept with this fuckboy anyway.”
Ezra doesn’t bother to keep his voice down, and I quickly glance around to make sure our team is well out of earshot, but it looks like they’ve all disappeared into the locker rooms.
“Would you keep your voice down?”
“Why? Embarrassed? Everyone here knows you’re gay.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say yes, but then we’ll end up circling back on the same bickering we always do. This is supposed to be moving on from that.
And what a surprise that Ezra is making it difficult.
Nothing to do with me at all.
I shove a hand through my sweaty hair. “I’m not embarrassed.”
“I know you better than to believe that.”
“I’m private. There’s a difference. And I don’t think our team needs to know that things are more complicated between us than straight-up animosity.”
“There’s nothing complicated here. You’re overthinking it. We don’t like each other, but we got each other off. It doesn’t have to mean any more than that.”
“Right. Nothing more.” I huff out a frustrated breath because I don’t completely believe it.
I catch his eyes and try to work out his expression. There’s something that happens when his gaze sharpens on me that speaks to me on a primal level. My gaze dips to where a wet curl of hair is stuck to his neck, and I can’t help wondering if his sweat smells as intoxicating after a grueling practice as he does when I have him bent over and working for it. I lick my lips completely unconsciously, and Ezra’s eyes snag on the movement.
“The way you’re eye-fucking me makes me think you want it to happen again.”
I let my stare roam down his face and to his wide chest, picturing myself stripping him out of his gear. “No idea what you mean.”
“Problem, boys?”
I straighten quickly at Coach’s voice and find him peering around the doorway of the locker room. “Nope, we’re good here.”
Which is actually not that far from the truth. Fuck, pigs really do fly.
I hold my head high as I stalk away, wanting to make sure Ezra is left with no doubt that he hasn’t been able to ruffle me. I’m used to masking signs of weakness, and that skill is going to come in handy when dealing with him.
Ezra wears his emotions up front, and no amount of snark or cockiness can completely hide the way he’s feeling at any one time. Especially because I get the feeling he never actually wants to.
The idea of letting people be privy to your every thought is so foreign to me I find it difficult to understand.
Good thing there are no feelings in hockey. Hockey is the one thing I can do in my sleep.