Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“I do.”
Then, with a quickness I didn’t see coming, he’s flagging down our server who’s here in seconds. “Question for you, my man. Can the chef put all four of these together? In a specialty roll? If you can, that’d be awesome.” Max flashes a rare smile the server’s way.
“I think so. I’ll ask the chef.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it immensely.”
When the server leaves, I give Max a knowing stare. Maybe topped with a bit of an I was right smile.
“What’s that for?”
I let my gaze sail toward the server then back to him, like Max has been busted. “You can be charming.”
He pffts.
“Don’t pfft me,” I say.
He pffts again.
“You were charming,” I say, pointing at his big, broad chest. “Like when the Beast didn’t interfere with Belle reading at dinner.”
He scratches his jaw, all casual. “I don’t think we’re watching the same movies. Pretty sure he bellowed at her to join him for dinner or else.”
“And then he was charming. Eventually,” I say.
“Fine,” he relents. “I was charming with the server. Does that mean I’ve passed and you’ll graduate me?”
I laugh. “Not on your life, Lambert.”
“You sure? You seemed pretty impressed I asked nicely for something. Why don’t you put in a good word with team management, and we’ll call this good?” He pushes back slightly in his chair.
“Nice try but sit your hockey butt down.”
With a sigh, he stays put. I’d expect nothing less from a competitive elite athlete, though, than to try to finagle a quicker way through this situation. It’s like when he stretches his body in all new directions to prevent a goal, doing the splits, it seems, in front of the net. Hmm. In what other inventive ways can he move his body? Or, really, mine, for that matter? I’m flexible too, thanks to pole. What would it be like to be flexible with him? It’s easy to picture in some ways, but hard too. It’s been a while since I’ve been with someone. Or really, it’s been a while since I took all my clothes off with someone. The last person was Gunnar—a guy I dated about a year and a half after the accident. An architect, he’d seemed thoughtful and smart on our first date, asking interesting questions and never hogging the conversation. Several dates and a few clothed make-out sessions later, I finally felt comfortable enough to tell him about my body. “I’m not afraid of a few scars,” he’d said with a wry smile. But still, once my shirt came off, he couldn’t stop staring at them. He never said a word about them, but his eyes said enough.
Pity.
His actions said more. He ghosted me literally an hour later.
Briefly, I think of Lucas, and the second date we’re planning. I don’t think he’d ghost me for the same reasons, since he knows all about the injuries, the surgeries, the marks on my body. I haven’t had sexy thoughts about Lucas recently, but then again, I haven’t seen him in a few months. Max is in my face every damn day.
I’m saved from my own wandering thoughts about both men when the server returns with a brand new combination of all things vegetarian. Max points to it with his chopsticks. “Vegetarians first,” he says.
I go for it, grabbing a roll, swiping it through the soy sauce and wasabi dish, then bringing it to my lips. I take a bite, and it’s…not bad. It doesn’t make me want to moan, but it is pretty tasty. When I finish the bite, Max looks at me expectantly.
“It’s unusual. And kind of fun. Is that weird for sushi to be fun?” I ask.
“No idea,” he says, but he sounds amused. He snags a piece, dips, and chews. Judging from the expression on his face, he’s not about to become an aficionado of this invented-on-the-fly roll, but he nods a few times. “It’s kind of like a vegetarian party in my mouth.”
And I crack up, laughing for longer than I’d expected. When I finally catch my breath, he looks pleased.
But he wipes the look off his face quickly. “All right. You tried a new thing. I guess I gotta try one now too.” He nods to the tablet by my side, and it’s no longer resignation in his eyes, but he’s wearing his game face. Like he’s ready to hit the ice. “What have you got for me, drill instructor?”
I flip it open and we get to work at last. There’s no need to mince words with Max. “We have one goal—we need to make you sellable again.”
His jaw ticks, but he nods, even though I know it can’t be easy to hear that he’s unlikeable. “No matter how good you are in the crease, no matter how much you love the sport, you have to be marketable these days,” I say. “I have some ideas for how to do that. A three-step plan, if you will. We’ll need to do a series of community outreach events, charitable appearances, and other fun things.”