More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
“I have to ask. Why’d you come up to me?”
“What do you mean?” “This party is packed with guys.”
“Are you fishing, Nash?”
“Maybe a little. But when the hottest girl at the party comes up to you, it’s a fair question.”
“Well, you’re one of the biggest guys here.” “Ah.” Ticking off a second finger, I add, “I had a hunch you weren’t a creep.”
“And I thought you were cute. Win-win.”
The reaction it garners me is fully worth the risk. Nash’s expression darkens and he sets aside his beer, his warm palm gently cupping my face. “Oh, it’s definitely a win for me.”
Finally, his lips brush against mine, gently coaxing them apart. My eyelids flutter shut as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting of citrus and beer, untold risks and rewards. It’s softer than I expected, at first, but as I kiss him back, he draws in a breath and dials up the intensity. Every nerve in my body comes alive, burning brighter with each passing second. This is no sloppy high school kiss. This is everything.
“We’ve been drinking,” Nash says against my lips, kissing me softly again. “I like you, Vi, and I don’t want to fuck this up.”
“I like you, too.” He pulls back, giving me a boyish grin. “Maybe you can come to our next game, and we can hang out after. You know, not drinking.” “Yeah?” A smile pulls at my cheeks. “I’d like that.”
My ex-girlfriend, Violet, is in the athletic training program. What if she’s one of them? Then again, she probably has some say in where she does her internship. There’s no way she would want to work with our team after the way things ended between us. With the way I ended things, specifically.
The only thing worse than having a ‘one that got away’ is knowing you’re the one who pushed her to leave.
Violet Dahl
I don’t move an inch but inwardly, my brain explodes. This is bad. This is really, really bad.
means necessary. Connor gives me a funny look. “What’s the problem, Richards? Did you bang one of the interns or something?”
was a little more serious than that. Violet is my ex.” His jaw nearly unhinges. “As in, ex-girlfriend? When the hell did you have a girlfriend?”
“It was before you started here. We met September of my freshman year and broke up the following spring. And now I’m fucked because I’m going to have to see her every day.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Violet hates me.”
When I think of him, I feel lots of things. Hurt. Regret. Sadness. Maybe resentment. But hate? Not really."
"Long story short, we dated for almost all of freshman year. Rumor has it, he turned into a complete fuckboy after that. I guess I broke him." "Ugly breakup?" She grimaces behind her glass.
"Hideous." While I know she means well, I'd rather not elaborate on the slow, painful decline of our relationship, nor the rocky parts in between. If I'm being honest, it was a pretty equal mix of good and bad, and not in the 'evens out' kind of way. In the rollercoaster way. The highs were through the stratosphere, but the lows were deeper than the Mariana Trench. “Maybe you should talk to Professor Rempel,”
It's a lie. There's a huge problem. Seventy-six inches of problem. Two hundred and twenty sculpted pounds of problem. A four-letter problem. Nash.
“You look a little pale. Are you feeling okay?” “Yeah, I’m good.” But the rasp in my voice says otherwise. “Right,” he says, unconvinced. “Now that we’ve got that lie out of the way, how are you actually doing?” “A little nervous,” I admit.
Then my eyes land on Nash in the middle of the crowd, and the air in my lungs turns to cement.
with his long legs sprawled out in front of him and a bored expression on his handsome face. His sun-kissed brown hair is trimmed shorter on the sides, his jawline is sharper, and his broad frame boasts significantly
more muscle, but it’s him. Heartbreak in human form, sitting r...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
Nash’s attention swivels over to me, and my heart slams into my chest.
And the moment our eyes lock, all those lies I’ve told myself shatter at my feet.
His expression remains impassive as he holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer than casual eye contact should entail. Somehow, looking at him makes two years feel like yesterday and decades ago all at once. My pulse accelerates with every passing moment until he breaks away and returns his attention to his teammate sitting on the other side of him, leaning in to say something.
“Violet”—Christina gestures to me with her clipboard and glances down at her list—“James Anderson, Ryder Smith, Brent Benson, Nash Richards, Connor Haas, and Spencer Davidson.”
“Want me to send the next guy in? Who is it?” He reaches over to grab his light gray LSU hockey sweatshirt off the chair next to him. “Nash,” I tell him, realizing only too late that being on a first-name basis with him makes us sound overly familiar. “Uh, Nash Richards.” He nods, pulling on his hoodie overhead. “I’ll let him know.” “Thanks.”
Nash sinks onto the gray vinyl therapy table and places his elbows on his muscular thighs, watching me with a blank expression. It’s impossible to tell what’s going on in his head. Shutting people out is his superpower, and right now, he’s harnessing that to its fullest.
“Do you have any concerns, injuries, or other issues that are bothering you?” My pen hovers above the page, ready to record his response. “No.”
“You sure about that?” I arch a brow, glancing up at him. Now that we’re closer, faint blue circles line his eyes. He looks tired; weary in a way that sleep won’t fix. Nash meets my gaze evenly. “Positive.”
“Any history of concussion?” He nods. “Last year. December.” Worry ghosts through my mind, even though he’s not mine to worry about anymore. “On the ice?”
“Yeah, when we were playing against the Vipers.”
“Hit gone wrong. Slammed into the boards at full speed.”
“Loss of consciousness?” “No. Mild dizziness. A little disoriented.”
“How long did your symptoms persist?” When I look up again, something flashes across his face. “About two weeks.”
“Any lingering symptoms from the concussion?” I ask. “Vision issues, dizziness, headaches?” “No.” Now he’s being honest with me again.
“Okay. Let’s check you out.”
“I’m going to have to…um, touch you.” “I know.” Nash shrugs a broad shoulder, seemingly indifferent to the idea. “I’m used to being poked and prodded.”
“How’s your shoulder?” “Great.” He’s so full of shit.
“Let me take a look.” I take a step toward his left. Nash inclines his head to the other side. “It’s the right, Vi.” Like I could ever forget. “I know. I want to check them both.”
“What?” “You couldn’t be more tense if you tried.” “I’m sore from dryland yesterday.” “You’re practically fighting me.”
“I need to check your external rotation.”
“Stop resisting.” “Maybe you’re being rough,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m half your size, and you’re trying to say I’m beating on you?”
“You’re sore because you have several injuries and you’re compensating for them, but you already know that since they’ve clearly been around for a while.”
“Look,” I tell him. “We don’t have to be BFFs, but the least you can do is cooperate with me. I still have to do my job.” “Fine.” He lets out a heavy exhale, and the tension he’s holding diminishes a fraction.
