Page 66 of The Book Club Boyfriend
We won. Barely. But a win’s a win.
I tug off my jersey, my muscles still buzzing from the adrenaline rush of the game, and I can’t stop thinking about one very specific moment—no, not my goal in the second period, though yeah, that was nice. Not even my hit on Garcia that sent him spinning like a top.
Nope.
The highlight of the night?
Scarlett Calloway—banging on the glass like she was trying to will the puck into the net. Screaming at the refs like she was personally offended by their calls, standing up from her seat, cheering, and absolutely losing her mind when we scored the game-winner in overtime.
I swear, I almost forgot to skate back to the bench.I was too busy staring.
I didn’t expect her to come. I mean, yeah, Lucy said she invited her, but I didn’t think she’d actually show up. And if she did, I figured she’d sit quietly in the corner, maybe roll her eyes through the whole thing.
What I got?
A full-throttle, trash-talking, glass-pounding maniac in jeans and a sweater.
I’m a little scared of her. A little impressed. And a whole lot turned on.
“Yo, Remington,” Tyler calls from across the room, tossing a roll of tape at me. “Earth to lover boy. You gonna shower or just stand there like you’re writing her name in your diary?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, catching the tape and chucking it right back at his head.
He laughs and ducks, still grinning like an idiot. “She looked good tonight.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Sure,” he says, heading for the showers. “Tell that to the drool on your chin.”
I ignore him and grab a towel, but I’m still thinking about her. She did look good; he’s right. Her hair was loose and wavy. And I’m still picturing the flush in her cheeks, the wild energy in her eyes. Like this wasn’t just a game to her—it was something she actually cared about.
So the woman who doesn’t believe in happy endings believes in power plays, high-sticking penalties, and yelling at professional athletes like they can hear her from section 102.
And I don’t know what that means yet.
But damn, I want to find out.
After, we hit up our usual post-game spot—Manny’s, a low-key Mexican place a few blocks from the arena. It’s loud, full of neon signs, and always smells like fried heaven.
Dash lounges in the booth across from me, already halfway through his first basket of chips. Tyler drops in next to him, still sweating from the game, and Will plops down beside me with a thud and a groan like the eighty-year-old man he insists he’s becoming at twenty-nine.
“Cheers to not blowing that lead in the third,” Tyler says, holding up his soda like it’s champagne.
“Barely,” Dash mutters. “If Chase hadn’t remembered how to shoot, we’d be crying into our queso right now.”
I smirk and steal a chip. “If I had a dollar for every time I saved your ass—”
“You’d still be an overpaid winger with a bad attitude,” Will deadpans.
Laughter rolls around the table.
The energy’s good tonight. Easy. Like we’re riding the high of a win, even if it was by the skin of our teeth.
But my phone buzzes, and suddenly, the game, the food, the guys—it all fades a little.
Because the name lighting up my screen?
Scarlett.
