Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
I look over at Lizzy, who has made herself comfortable on my bed, spreading herself out and playing around on her phone. Actually she’s reading—told me so herself—on some book app or whatever.
Sully: Don’t I always text you when I’m taking a dump?
Yes. Yes, he does, actually.
Sully: ’Bout to shower, I stink.
Me: Where were you guys tonight, btw?
Sully: Benny wanted to run some drills. He’s been trying to get off the bench, so we met him on the ice. GO JACKS!
Benny is one of our teammates and fourth line. Sounds like he’s trying to get a better line position—which isn’t an easy thing to do. They generally recruit you for your position, and he’s a freshman—which means he’s trying to steal an upperclassman’s position.
Not uncommon but…you know. It’s a long shot.
“Are you going to stand there all night or like, come sit down?” Lizzy’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “I’m not trying to make it weird. I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable in your own bedroom—you don’t have to stand over there.”
Right.
But wouldn’t sitting on the bed with her be even weirder, or sitting on the couch facing away from her?
I falter, not sure what to do with myself, at the same time my phone pings with another notification from my idiot roommate and teammate who’s shitting and showering in the next room, trying to get up in my business.
For the first time in the entire time they’ve known me, I actually have business and I won’t lie, it’s kind of nice having one up on them.
Not saying I’m a loser or anything, just saying I could step it up a notch when it comes to my social life. Year after year, as the upperclassman would enter the NHL draft, I would watch women throwing themselves at my buddies—not always for the right reasons. It left a sour taste in my mouth and I got choosey after that, not wanting to be taken advantage of.
Or used.
My roommates on the other hand?
Will take what they can get, when they can get it.
Sully isn’t shy, nor is he shy about going after something he wants.
That dude has had more girlfriends in the time I’ve known him than I can count on two hands. He belongs on Fuck Boy Island but that’s only my opinion. And it’s not uncommon for my friends to sleep with lots of women—some of them even claim they do it to help the way they play.
There’s a science behind sex and adrenaline and the endorphins some of my teammates prescribe to, and therefore—fuck a bunch.
Sully and Charlie being two of them.
“Earth to Brodie.” Lizzy snaps her fingers, setting her phone on the bed so she can study me as I waffle, shuffling to the bed, dreading the intimacy of having her in my room. Lizzy watches me intently when I walk to the couch, my knees bumping against it.
Should I sit here? Or there?
“Oh my god, stop being awkward and sit down.” She leans across the bed and grabs my hand, pulling me down onto the mattress. “I don’t bite.”
I should probably turn the television on and actually watch a movie the way I said I would do, but when Lizzy moves—adjusting herself again to get resituated—her breasts are up over the neckline of her tank top, and I can see the outline of her nipples.
Jesus, why the fuck would she wear that?
It’s worse than the robe, which has long been discarded on my desk chair, forgotten.
“Do you mind if I turn on a movie?” I ask.
“Totally—let’s watch a movie.” Her phone gets set down, and Lizzy props a pillow behind her head and bends her knees, fabric from her shorts sagging and giving me a clear shot of her smooth under thigh.
Who knew that spot on a woman’s body could be so fucking…smooth and sexy?
Not me.
Plus, if she’s wearing underwear, I cannot see it.
Rather than take a seat next to her as she’s prompting me to do, I take a seat on the couch at the foot of the bed, already pointing the remote at the TV to get my mind off her legs and boobs and hair and how good she smells.
The TV comes to life with the last channel I was watching on its screen. TOO HOT TO HANDLE.
Oh jeez.
Not this.
Quickly, I scroll over and away from it, my cheeks flaming hot with embarrassment. Not that I care what she thinks about the shows I watch, but I don’t want her to think I care about the tits and ass and—
“Wait. Go back. Were you watching Too Hot to Handle?”
“Was I?”
“Were you?”
“No.” I’m not sure why I lie but I do, ignoring her request to flip back, instead flipping through to get to the movies, not a single one of them looks appealing. As if I’d be able to concentrate.