Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Or maybe it’s the feel of her skin, the dangerous proximity to her mouth, or the wish that I could taste the drop of wine right now. To kiss it off her lips. But that can’t happen—romance is not in the cards.
I stand abruptly, gathering the dish, the napkin, the forks, and the nearly empty wineglass. “I should…”
“Get some sleep. Sounds like you have a busy day tomorrow. And every day. You have a big year ahead,” she says, full of understanding.
Full of the reminder that I need to narrow my focus to hockey and only hockey. Romance is always fun at the beginning. But the deeper you get into it, the greater the chance you’ll get screwed.
“I do,” I say, then take the wineglass she’s offering me. “I’ll see you at the end of the week, though, when the furniture arrives. Well, if not before.”
“Yes, if not before,” she adds, brushing her hands down her shirt. “Good night, Ford. Good night, Zamboni.”
The dog thumps her tail against the wooden porch. “Thanks for the mac and cheese, Skylar,” I say.
Skylar turns to go but then spins around, her lips parted. “Your tie. You said your publicist gave it to you.”
I run a finger down the pale-yellow silk. “Yeah. Camila did. She gives me one every year. She did when I finally played in my first game, so now I wear yellow to every game.”
If I thought her smiles were big earlier, this one shoots to the moon.
“It’s your lucky color? Yellow?” It sounds like she’s uncovered a profound mystery.
“Yeah, it is.”
She nods a few times, then says, “It’s a good color on you.”
She turns and walks away, and I watch her the entire time, savoring her compliment. And also this stolen moment with her. But late-night snacks with the neighbor aren’t something I can let myself get used to.
I have a season to prove I can go out on top. And the sport that gave me everything demands the same discipline from me.
I pet my dog, and we go inside. Alone.
13
BIRD-WATCHING
SKYLAR
I shouldn’t have a thing for apex predators, being a vegetarian and all. Still, there is just something about predatory birds that is so cool.
It’s terrible of me to admire them.
Truly, it is.
But as I’m futzing around the kitchen a couple days later, fighting off a yawn while trying to crush my brother in Wordle—news flash: I’m not even close to beating his solve-it-in-three-tries average—a faint chirp floats through the open window.
Is that…my great blue heron love?
I race across the house in my fuzzy Bees Are Cool socks, complete with no-slip grips, to the front of the home, where I hunt for my opera glasses in the pile of paperbacks I keep meaning to give to my friends.
I hightail it back to the kitchen, past a curious Simon, who lifts his snout from his dog bed, then stretches and pads behind me.
While slinging the opera glasses around my neck, I make it to the mudroom window as a chirp drifts past my ears again.
Hmm. That’s not quite a squawk. But maybe herons chirp before they squawk? “Cleo, is there a great blue heron out there?”
But she says nothing. She simply sits imperiously in the corner, white paws crossed, gaze fixed on the live oak.
Well then.
If I’m going to become an amateur bird-watcher, no time like the present.
I swear I won’t even look at the neighbor’s home. I’ll keep my focus firmly fixed on…the birds. That’s what a new birder does.
I hoist myself over the windowsill, scanning the yard.
There’s a mock orange tree in one corner, a red maple near the other, a California fuchsia in the middle…and is that a pack of hummingbirds in the fuchsia? Those birds are so tiny, it really is a good thing I have these opera glasses to check them out. But I should get closer, especially since someone is definitely chirping again.
With my blue jammies on today, I shimmy along the shelf, sliding closer and closer still to Cleo, while an annoying voice talks back in my head.
You’re trying to spy on your hot neighbor.
Sheesh. My inner voice is super judgy. I try to reassure the voice that I won’t look at Ford’s porch. I really won’t look to the east. I slink along on my belly, then bring the glasses to my eyes.
Whoa. Everything’s blurry. It’s all green fuzz. I adjust the opera glasses, focusing intensely on the California fuchsia. They’re known for hummingbirds, I think. And look at all of them. Just look at them. Just look at…
That tanned skin. The smattering of golden chest hair. And that…is that…an eight-pack?
Five, six, seven…Oh god. Eight. And that treasure trail that leads right into…
Stop!
The man is simply saluting the sun, and I am salaciously, shamelessly…
Oh, is that a prayer twist now? Well, I am praying he holds this pose as I stare without intermission at those bare, toned, and muscular arms. Those sturdy shoulders, rippling and, I bet, firm to the touch.