Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“You’re out of his league, and he’s not even remotely your type.”
“You have no idea what my type is,” she snaps.
“I know it’s not a chain-smoking Uber driver who probably snorts blow.” I dig around in my sweats pocket until I find the keys to my SUV. The lights flash as I unlock the doors and hand the keys to her.
She looks my car over. It’s not flashy or overly expensive. It’s practical, decent on gas, and fits all my hockey gear. I like my money in my bank account more than I like fast cars. Would I enjoy driving around in a sweet sports car? Maybe, but dropping a quarter of a million dollars on a vehicle is a stupid way to burn through money when I have no idea how long my career is going to last. I’m pragmatic and I don’t have a five-year contract with an $11-million-a-year salary like her brother does. All I have is two seasons at five mil a year, and I’d like that to last the rest of my life and Nolan’s if it needs to.
I toss my crutches in the back while she adjusts the driver’s seat so she can reach the gas and brake.
I’m about to get in when Kingston comes jogging across the lot. His hair is wet and parted on the side. He looks a lot like Captain America and dresses like a golf pro. It fits his personality. “Hey! I’m surprised to see you. I figured you wouldn’t be moving around for at least a couple more days.”
I lean against the side of my SUV. “Just coming to pick up my car.”
“I would’ve brought it back for you.” His Volvo SUV beeps from the next spot over, and he tosses his hockey bag in the back seat. He peeks over my shoulder and tips his chin up. “Who’s driving?”
“Just a friend.” I shift so I’m blocking the passenger-side window. “What’re you doing here so late?”
“Running ice drills with a few of the guys—you know, keeping sharp for tomorrow night’s game.” He’s still trying to see around me. “Is that a girl?”
“Uh, yeah.” King and I might be friends, but there’s no way I’m going to tell him it’s the team captain’s little sister driving my car.
“Since when do you have a girlfriend?”
“I don’t. She’s a friend who also happens to be a girl.” She’s not even really that.
“You’re being awfully cagey about her if she’s just a friend. Don’t think I can’t tell you’re trying to hide her.” He opens his driver’s-side door and climbs in. “Miss you on the ice, buddy. Give me a call if you need anything; otherwise I’ll stop by later in the week, ’kay?”
“I’ll make sure I’m stocked up on two percent milk.”
“Does a body good.” He actually means it like the commercial, not like he’s full of himself. I wait until he closes his door before I turn back to my SUV. I have to open mine all the way so I can get in, but my body blocks most of King’s view.
“Does that guy play for Seattle too?” Stevie leans forward, like she’s trying to see around me.
“Yeah. That’s Ryan Kingston; he’s a goalie. Why?”
Stevie shrugs. “No reason.” She watches him pull out of the spot. He waves as he passes us, so she waves in return.
“He’s a super-straight arrow, and there’s no way in hell he’d be interested in you.”
She glares at me, full top lip pulled up in disgusted sneer. “Could you be any more offensive?”
I hold up a hand. “That came out wrong. You’re the team captain’s little sister. He’s a rule follower, so even if he was interested, he would never make a move, because it would go against his moral code. Also, he has a girlfriend, and they’ve been together for years.”
“Right. Okay. Let’s also not forget that I’m a boner-killer.”
I sigh. I should probably learn how and when not to be an asshole. “I only said that because I thought you were screwing your brother.” I cringe. “I mean I thought you were his other woman, not his sister.”
“Uh-huh.”
She has to know she’s hot. I don’t see how she couldn’t. She sees her own face in the mirror every day. It’s not hard to look at, and neither is the rest of her. “You’re not a boner-killer. You got hit on by the damn Uber driver with me sitting right next to you. That has to tell you something about your appeal to the opposite sex.”
“That guy looked like Justin Bieber’s emo brother.” She types the address to our building into the GPS while I shift around, trying to get comfortable—which isn’t easy, considering my pain level.
It’s been six hours since I took anything for the discomfort and swelling, partly because I want to see how bad the pain gets. The medication the doctor prescribed is good for taking the edge off, but it also keeps me from knowing exactly how severe the injury is. Based on the black spots in my vision every time I make a sudden move, I’m thinking it’s pretty damn bad. I groan as I stretch my leg out.