Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Zoe pulls out her phone and frowns. “No, you didn’t. The last message I have is you asking me if eye-rolling counts as cardio.”
“Well, it should. And here—I sent you…” I pull out my phone and open our text thread. But there’s no picture of Tremaine. “Oh, wait. I messaged you on Instagram. See?” I open that app next and tap on my messages.
But the message on top of the inbox is not with Zoe. It’s with Eric Tremaine’s profile.
I sent the message directly to Tremaine, not to Zoe.
“Oh my God,” I breathe. Because this is truly a disaster. So much worse than drooling on the bus. “Oh my God.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Just everything.”
Chapter 3
Blink Twice for Yes
Eric
Bathing suits on! DeLuca says in our friend chat. We can swim after dinner.
From the hotel bed, I glance toward my suitcase. Changing my clothes sounds like too much effort.
That means you too E-Train.
Hell. Not one to disappoint my boys, I finish my smoothie. Then I heave myself off the bed and look for my bathing suit.
Nice pic on social, captain, Chase Merritt chimes in. Sexy.
Honestly I thought he looked constipated, Weber chirps back.
I throw the phone down on the bed, not about to dignify those comments with a response. But after I change into my trunks, I open Instagram and check my profile.
Technically, I never have to open social media. “You have people for that,” my publicity assistant always says. “Leave it to me.”
But when the guys are making noise about a photo, I always pay attention. After all, it was Chase who spotted my hookup’s panties in the background of one shot last year. I deleted that one in a hurry.
Today’s photo is fine, though. It’s me in my new tux. I squint at it, trying to see what Weber was talking about. But the publicity people insist that a serious expression is part of my “brand.”
Gross, right? I refuse to become someone who says “my brand” with a straight face.
Since we’re deep in the playoffs, my account is particularly active this month, with thousands of comments. And somehow I’ve got over a hundred unread messages. I tap on the inbox. People send the weirdest shit to a stranger:
I’ve analyzed your game stats and concluded that your slap shot improves by 7% when you wear blue laces.
Do you think hockey players would survive a zombie apocalypse? Asking for science.
I crocheted a life-sized pillow of you. My cat is sitting on your face right now. Marry me?
I just know your favorite cereal is Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Am I right? Blink twice for yes.
These people are probably drunk. Or maybe they know I only read 1 percent of the mail, and they’re just amusing themselves.
I’m about to close the app when my eye snags on one particular message… the Randolph-Fletcher wedding…
Okay, weird? I open the message and read it twice. But I’m still confused. Who the hell is @D10011?
There’s a sharp knock on my hotel room door. “ET? You ready for dinner?” The voice belongs to DeLuca, one of our goalies.
Still staring at my phone, I cross the room and open the door. “What’s going on here, you think?” I thrust the phone at my buddy. “Does this person know me or not?”
He reads the message, frowning. “Hmm. So there’s some babe who wants to take you to a wedding and then let you tie her up. That’s just Tuesday on the internet. I don’t see the problem here?”
I point at the last line. “The Palmetto Room is where we’re eating in five minutes.”
“Ohhhhh shiiit!” He squints at the screen. “Who is this woman. Or, if we’re being objective, it could also be a man.” He taps on the sender’s handle.
The profile pic doesn’t show a face, though. It shows the Flatiron Building instead. “That’s six blocks from the rink.”
We both lean in for a better look. But there are very few photos in the feed. No selfies, either. These pics are artsy. There’s a photo of a mosaic I recognize from the Twenty-Third Street subway station—a portrait of a dog by William Wegman. And another of Eighth Avenue on a rainy night, the neon lights reflecting on the wet pavement.
“Clues!” DeLuca says, sounding delighted. “He or she lives in our neighborhood.”
“Right?”
“Oh, look—those shoes!” DeLuca jabs a thick finger at the photo of some sidewalk chalk, which also captures the photographer’s feet. “So this is a woman’s profile. And… don’t those look familiar?”
I squint at the photographer’s shoes. They’re cute—a pair of leopard print heels. And when something clicks, I inhale.
“Bro?” DeLuca says. “You’ve seen ’em, too, right? They’re hot.”
“Those are… Darcy has those shoes.” I can picture her in one of her pencil skirts striding into work, a leather bag over her shoulder, hips swinging. Long, smooth legs.
And those heels.
DeLuca lets out a gleeful hoot. “Holy shit! Darcy’s sliding into your DMs? Who knew she had it in her?”