Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
“Cool. Let’s keep going. We got this.”
Two days later:
“Where’s the attack zone?”
Malcolm’s nose twitched. “It’s the area around the goal, also called the um…don’t tell me. Um…”
“Starts with an O.” I tapped my drawing of an ice rink spread out on his dining table.
“Open zone. No…offense zone. Offensive zone.”
I grinned. “Good job. Show me the neutral zone.”
“You know in Star Trek, the neutral zone is a buffered area between hostile powers, like the Romulans and the Federation,” he said, adjusting his glasses.
My smile was fast and hit so hard, it hurt my cheeks. “I did know that. You’re looking at a bona fide Trekkie.”
“No. Really?”
“Really.”
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “What is the Romulan home world called?”
“Romulus,” I immediately replied.
“Too easy. What class starship is the Enterprise?”
“I assume you’re talking about the USS Enterprise-D, which is a galaxy-class starship.” I made a mic-drop gesture and crossed my arms.
Malcolm’s lips curled slightly, and then…he grinned. He tried to hide it at first, but he gave up and let it fly. And damn, he was very fucking cute.
“You’re a man of mystery, Mr. Erickson.”
“I know, right?” I waggled my brows. “I was a big fan as a kid. I loved the idea of an interplanetary world that I could visit with good guys and bad guys, and cool aliens.”
“Me too.”
I waited for him to add something, but he didn’t. Eventually, I pointed at my rink sketch. “Why are there three red lines on the ice?”
Malcolm slumped in his chair. “I have no idea.”
“Come on. You know this,” I cajoled.
“Their geometric position suggests that the center line marks the middle, and the other two have something to do with the net thing. I don’t know what, and I’ve lost the will to care. Ask me where the blue lines are. I know that one.”
I snorted. “Fine. Where’re the blue lines?”
He picked up a pen and marked the lines on the paper. “Here and here. Their purpose has something to do with off the sides, but I don’t know what that means and to be perfectly honest, at this very moment, I’d prefer to have my eyes gouged out than to know the answer. Can we please cease and desist any further hockey discussions today?”
I threw my head back and laughed.
“Fine. You win. I have practice in forty-five minutes, anyway.” I checked the time on my cell. “Not worth going home, but—”
“Stay. If you’d like,” he added quickly. “I can make a healthy snack and…perhaps there’s an intergalactic rerun on television. If you want to stay…that is.”
Butterflies swarmed in my chest, and my mouth went dry. So fucking silly, right? It wasn’t as if he’d asked to suck my dick, but my body seemed to think carrot sticks and old TV shows were a decent close second.
I licked my lips and inclined my chin. “Sounds good.”
One week later:
“What’s a one-timer?”
Malcolm hummed. “It’s um…also known as a one-time shot, and it means that you only have one opportunity to score. All night. Ever. For the rest of eternity.”
I made a buzzer noise as I chomped on a pretzel. “Wrong. Try again.”
“It’s that thing of which a teammate passes the puck to you and you deposit it into the net…posthaste.”
Laughter bubbled in my chest. I tried not to let it go…I really did, but I loved the way he talked. I bit the inside of my cheek and inclined my head. “That’s generally correct. Good job.”
“Thank you. Are we finished? I made brownies earlier. Might I tempt you with one?”
“You’re bribing me to stop this important hockey tutorial with brownies?”
Malcolm nodded solemnly. “I am.”
“Do you have ice cream?”
“I do.”
“Deal.”
He beamed. “Corner or middle piece?”
“Corner, please.”
“That’s perfect. I prefer the middle. We can eat the whole pan without either of us being disappointed.”
So…we did.
Ten days later:
“Do you always lift the stick so high, or do you start at your hip?”
I skated to Malcolm who was white-knuckling the ledge, one foot on the ice, the other on the rubber mat next to the player’s bench. “Come on out, and I’ll show you.”
“No, siree. I’ve sufficiently embarrassed myself enough for one afternoon. I don’t feel like falling again. My ‘you know what’ hurts.”
“Your ass,” I deadpanned.
Malcolm smirked. “Yes.”
And just like that, I had a chubby. I skated to the goal, hoping to regain my composure, but I kid you not, I was unraveling at lightning speeds. A guy could only take so many days of hanging out with his crush before going apeshit bonkers.
Days…
Days of hockey quizzes that turned into heated debates about the possibility of humans inventing warp drive for space travel while chowing on hummus and pita chips. And lots of brownies.
Days of trying not to get caught studying his profile and pretending not to notice that his hair smelled like berries and the forest. Yeah, I know…don’t ask.
Days of texting stream-of-consciousness nonsense—Why don’t more people barbecue in winter? Have you ever made your own hummus?—and grinning like an idiot every time his name popped up on my cell.