Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
I fought back a smile, grabbing a bit of soil and rolling it into a clump before I tossed it at him. “Flattery will get you nowhere, sir.”
“You sure about that?” he asked, and he dropped the plant he was working on, crawling across the floor to me, instead.
“Hey, do not interrupt me. This monstera needs—hey!”
I laughed as he tugged me by one leg from the stool, and I tumbled into his lap, inhaling a breath as he caught me with a kiss. We were both dirty, soil under our fingernails as our kisses went from lazy and sweet to urgent and intentional.
The afternoon slipped into evening, the sun moving slowly across that room as Vince undressed me and laid me down right there on the dirt-covered floor. It felt like fucking in a forest, the French music adding a magical element that would burn that memory into my mind forever.
• • •
Later that night, while Vince was sound asleep, I pulled up an article on my phone in bed next to him.
I must have wanted to torture myself.
I must have wanted to remind myself who I was, and who Vince was, and how the rules we’d outlined were the ones I needed to remember to play by.
I must have been determined to cast a dark cloud over the most beautiful day, to rain on that sunny afternoon before anything had the chance to bloom.
Because I googled wives of NHL players, and doom-scrolled.
Models. Actresses. Sports broadcasters. Pop stars. Hotel heiresses.
My stomach tied itself up into an impossible knot the more I read, and when a tear pricked my eye, I sniffed, batting it away and closing out of the app. I laid there, staring up at the ceiling with the phone on my pounding chest.
Then, I blew out a breath, opened my phone and started a new note.
Bullet after bullet, I listed out goals and to-dos: create name for new account, build six months of content with local community outreach programs and heroes, link website with resources for people who want to get involved, invest in new camera equipment and upgraded phone, take a girls’ trip with Livia, spend a long weekend with Mom and Dad, remodel my patio, try a new hairstyle, get a new dress, get a tattoo, get a cat?
I sighed when it was twenty-bullets long, staring at the list with my heart in my throat.
I titled it Life After Vince Tanev.
Then, I quietly slid my phone onto the nightstand and curled up behind the nation’s hottest rookie hockey player, wrapping my arms around him and letting myself admit in that dark silence what I’d never admit out loud.
A Real Fucking Problem
Vince
We were up by three when I dropped my gloves and picked a fight with a guy much larger than me.
One of the goals tonight was mine, along with an assist, which must have pissed Austin Marchand off, because the Atlanta defenseman checked me hard against the boards. When he did, he sneered through his face mask and said, “Cute show tonight, Tanev. That girl of yours must have a golden pussy, huh? Make sure you pass her on to me when you’re done.”
I ground my teeth, elbowing his ribs before I started wailing on him. He threw me to the ice, where we tussled for a minute before I jumped up. When he was standing, too, he grinned a bloody smile like he’d won.
So, I dropped my gloves, and we duked it out to the roar of twenty-thousand Osprey fans.
I was still fuming when the refs peeled us off each other and made me skate to the penalty box. Normally, I’d be revving up the crowd after a fight like that, but I was still pissed. I wanted to punch that fucker’s teeth through his lips so he’d learn to never talk about Maven like that again. Having to deny allegations anytime a reporter asked if there was anything between us was hard enough as it was, but having another player — shit, having anyone — talk about her like all she was was a piece of ass?
That wasn’t going to fucking fly.
Marchand’s teammates goaded me when I was in the box, along with a few Atlanta fans beating on the glass behind my head, but I ignored them all. My eyes skirted to Coach, who arched a brow at me that said he’d be wanting an explanation later. He wasn’t pissed, though, because we were winning — and now, we had even more momentum, our crowd fired up and chanting. A few stuffed animal fish toys flew onto the ice prematurely, a sign that they were confident we had the win.
My eyes found Maven next.
I sucked in a breath at her smile, the one that beamed across her entire face. Her eyes were shining and bright behind where she held her phone, and I could tell she was zooming it in on me. She shook her head as she did, and when I winked, she laughed, typing something on the screen before posting the video, I assumed.