Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
On impulse, I grab “Sleepy Baby Dragon” from the bottom shelf beneath my collection of coffee table books and place it beside Scorcher Jr, smiling at how cute the illustrated cover looks beside my homemade puppet.
I head into the shower, staying loyal to my usual routine, but the hot water doesn’t calm me the way it usually does, and as I slip between my sheets, I find myself wishing Stone were here to snuggle again. Just…snuggle, not even deliver multiple O’s.
This is dangerous territory. Getting attached to a man I have no intention of getting serious about is about as smart as skating without a helmet. Even if I decided I was up for breaking my “no relationships” rule, and Stone was game to be boyfriend/girlfriend, between my career ambitions in Seattle and Stone aiming for a sportscaster job in L.A. after he retires, we’re moving in completely different directions. And the fact still remains that my dad would make Stone’s final NHL season miserable if he found out about us.
Nope, giving in to my softer side would be a mistake. I just need to enjoy this for what it is and keep holding Stone at an appropriate distance. A friendly, fuck buddy distance. I can do that.
At least, I think I can…
But as I drift off to sleep, I find myself looking forward to whatever we’re going to do on Saturday with an eagerness I haven’t felt in a long time.
A long, long time.
Chapter 6
Stone
Early Saturday evening…
* * *
There’s something magical about an empty ice rink, especially a charming vintage rink like this one. The freshly polished surface gleams in the rosy light streaming through the high windows up above, transforming the beat-up boards into something sacred, a temple dedicated to frozen water and questionable decisions.
Speaking of questionable decisions...
I wonder what Remy’s going to think of my surprise.
Was renting out an entire ice rink too much? Or just enough? Either way, I’ll find out soon. She should be here any minute, and I’m way more excited about that than I should be.
But, so what? Sue me for looking forward to an evening on the ice with a beautiful woman.
I take a deep breath, savoring the scent lingering in the air—aging rubber mats mixed with stinky feet, a hint of wood rot, and the subtle tang of metal and Zamboni fluid. It smells just like the rink where I strapped on my first pair of hockey skates, back when Mom enrolled me in every sport known to man to help burn off my boundless, six-year-old energy. But after just one day at Pee-Wee camp, I was ready to quit Little League, karate, and soccer. Even as a first grader, I knew that hockey was where I belonged. I played like I’d been born with a stick in my hand. I fell hard for the sport and never looked back.
Now, almost thirty years later, the love affair is nearly over. I’m in my last year as a member of the NHL, and sure, I’ll probably do something hockey-adjacent for work after this, but it won’t be the same.
Everything is about to change…
Maybe that’s why I’m finding it so therapeutic to worry about Remy’s emotional well-being. It’s a great way to keep my mind off the upheaval in my own life.
Or maybe I’m just horny.
I’ve jerked off to thoughts of my favorite redhead at least four times since we parted ways Thursday night, but it’s done nothing to take the edge off. I’m still committed to keeping this Fun Coaching friendly and above-board, but fuck… I’m in quite a state, and it’s all her fault.
If only she didn’t smell so damned good or look so smokin’ hot while crafting.
“Is it weird that I think it’s hot when women enjoy crafting, Flo?” I ask as our private tutor skates past on the other side of the boards, testing the fresh ice he just laid down twenty minutes ago.
“Yes, but we’re all weird, Big Guy. It’s fine.” Florio “Flo” Barone executes a series of lazy figure eights, managing to make them look like part of an inspired performance. He’s everything you’d expect from a former Olympic-level figure skater turned coach: dramatic, flamboyant, and a big fan of sparkles on and off the ice. “What’s not fine is that your girlfriend is late,” he says, arching a dark brow my way. “I will gently remind you that, much like a high-class prostitute, I do get paid by the hour.”
“Of course, you do. But like I said, she’s not my girlfriend,” I repeat for the twentieth time. “We’re not even dating. This is just a friend meet-up.”
Flo smirks. “If you say so, pookie. But I don’t know many straight men who would book a private lesson with a righteously expensive figure skating instructor for ‘a friend,’ they had no intentions of trying to get into bed later. You’re on a mission of seduction, or my undies aren’t ES Collection.”