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)
Suddenly, Sully snaps his fingers, a dismayed expression crossing his face as if he’s just remembered something tragic.
“Dude. Do you know what we should have done?”
“Hmm?”
“Gone skating.”
Gone skating? “Like, ice skating?”
“Yeah—haven’t you ever been ice skating?" Sully's question pulls me back to the present, and I quickly nod, trying to hide my distraction.
"Uh, yeah. I’ve been a few times. It's…fun," I lie, hoping my response sounds convincing enough to satisfy a hockey player because the truth is, I hate ice skating. I’m terrible at it—not that I’m going to admit that to a guy who spends most of his time on ice.
My parents used to force us to go ice skating in the winter, around the holidays, on the occasions we went up to my grandma’s lake house. We’d go to the town’s little rinky-dink rink, and my cousin Simon used to skate past me fast and shove me into the snowbanks.
Asshole.
Still is, by the way…
I nod along as Sully drones on about skating, how he started skating, how he can actually figure skate, and how his mom used to make him take gymnastics so he’d be more flexible on the ice.
That’s how hardcore his parents were? Damn.
“…think I’m the only one of my roommates who has figure skated.” He laughs. “You should see me do a double lutz.”
Is he bragging? Hard to tell.
For the most part, Sully has been a polite, normal date.
No pressure.
He’s ordered us appetizers, and I grab a mozzarella stick as he talks, biting into it and going cross-eyed when the long string of cheese pulls out the back end of it.
I don’t even care that he stops speaking so he can stare.
So yum.
“So you’ve literally had a conversation about figure skating with your roommates?”
He nods. “Roommates and teammates, yeah.”
Roommates.
Brodie.
He pops into my brain despite how hard I’m trying to pay attention to the things my date is saying.
It’s totally unfair that my mind is wandering.
But still…
What is Brodie actually like? Like, when there isn’t a strange girl in his room, hogging up all the space? What’s he doing right now, knowing I’m on a date with his roommate?
Does he care?
As Sully continues to talk, I find myself stealing glances toward the door, half expecting Brodie to walk through it at any given moment.
Of course, he doesn’t.
Why would he?
He’s probably holed up in his room right now, lost in his own world of hockey and solitude. Or scrubbing it clean from my presence.
"So tell me more about Brodie," I blurt out before I can stop myself, the words tumbling out in a rush.
Sully raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised by my sudden interest in his roommate. "Brodie? Well, he's... he's a bit of a mystery, to be honest. He's a talented hockey player. A team player for sure - the Minnesota State Lumberjacks need him. Most of the time when we’re hanging out at home he just stays in his room, you know? Doesn't really come out much."
I nod, trying to appear casual as I probe for more information. "Does he have any hobbies or interests? Besides hockey, I mean."
Oh my god, why did I blurt that out? I sound like I’m interviewing him.
Sully shrugs, his impressively bushy upper brow furrowing in thought. "Not really sure, to be honest. Sometimes he golfs? I don’t know—he's pretty private. I hear him listening to music sometimes without headphones—old-school rock bands and stuff like that."
Old-school rock bands? Like who?
As Sully speaks, a picture of Brodie begins forming in my mind—a solitary figure, hidden away from the world, lost in the rhythm of his own thoughts. Big. Broody.
Broody Brodie.
Bearded, now that I’m on a kick with words that begin with B.
I chuckle to myself.
"Sounds... interesting," I murmur, my mind already drifting toward the possibilities. “An old soul.”
“Sure. An old soul,” he deadpans.
“Really?”
“No—just because he likes old rock bands doesn’t make him an old soul, you goofball.” He takes a chicken wing and sinks his teeth into it. “I listen to the Grateful Dead, and that doesn’t make me a hippie.”
“Good point.” But… “How did you all meet? From just hockey?”
“Yeah, hockey. I transferred from State last year and knew Charlie ’cause we’d been on a club team together in high school so”—he shrugs again—“blah blah blah.”
That makes me laugh. “You’re the only guy I’ve ever heard say blah blah blah in a sentence.”
Sully grins, barbecue sauce stuck to his front tooth.
"So, Lizzy, what do you think of this place?" Sully's question snaps me out of my reverie, and I quickly force a smile, trying to focus on the present, aware that my mind keeps drifting.
As usual.
“What do I think of this place?” I repeat his question, wondering why he’s asking—considering I’m the one who chose it. “It’s a good go-to.” I still sound absent-minded, and my brain is still stuck on the enigmatic Brodie.