Page 44 of Lucky Shot
“Aidan?”
He seems a little young to blast music. I thought that was an angry teenager thing. Then again, I don’t have a lot of experience with kids. Just Greer, and everything she does is adorable.
“He’s learning to play the guitar.” Nick winces as if just talking about it has him shuddering. He gives me a sheepish grin as he holds the door open for me, leading to the ice. I brush past him and then pause in the hallway.
“Thanks again. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. If you have more questions, we can plan on getting to the rink earlier.” He pulls out his phone. “Let me give you my number.”
My stomach flutters in that way it does when you’re talking to someone and taking the next step to stay in touch.
“So we can coordinate,” he adds.
“Right.” Official business, not flirting with me. Fumbling, I pull out my phone. I add his number to my phone, then text him so he has mine.
Somewhere on the ice I can hear one of the coaches tell the kids lunchtime is over. Nick takes a step backward, flashing me those dimples. “If you need anything before tomorrow, just text me.”
“You’ve given me plenty for now.” I clutch my laptop to my chest.
He nods, turns on his heel, and jogs off.
Café Moon smells like dark roast beans and sweet sugar. A rich, wood bar takes up half the counter space and there are tables along the windows and spaced out around the room. It’s cozy and warm, and to my surprise, filled with more people than I thought were in all of Moonshot. It’s bustling with people hurrying in and out. Others sit with friends or dates, and a few have laptops in front of them, working like me.
After I settle into the booth by the window, I pull out my laptop and my notes. Excitement courses through me as I read through Nick’s answers to all my questions. He’s turning out to be different than I thought. I think he might be a genuinely nice guy underneath his jerk exterior. I like the way he lights up talking about hockey. He transforms. Even in reading his thoughts to things like his daily schedule, I find myself grinning at the screen as I remember the way he was so animated as he told it.
Unfortunately, his excitement, and mine, doesn’t translate well. As soon as I switch over to my manuscript, the blinking cursor looms and I’m frozen, fingers poised over the keyboard. Itake a deep breath, sit back and eat my scone, giving myself the mother of all pep talks.
You can do this. One word at a time. You’ve done it before. You can do it again. You have got this!
Except with my scone gone and coffee cup empty, I still haven’t made a single edit.
I grab my phone and swipe to read a new text from my sister.
Olivia
How is it going with the hot hockey player?
Chuckling, I tap out a reply.
Me
You can’t keep calling him that.
Olivia
Why not? He’s hot. Flynn agrees.
Me
Because I’m working with him.
And because I don’t need a reminder. Those dimples. Those eyes. Those muscles.
Olivia
Fine. How is it going with the hockey player (who is definitely hot)?
Me
