Page 10 of For Pucking Keeps

ME: #stopthatshit. I didn’t take you for a woman to believe bullshit, Miss Starr. I guess I am going to have to do something about that.

SUPERNOVA: Seeing is believing, Mr. Bailey

ME: Tor. Call me, Tor. I don’t know Mr. Bailey, I never met him.

As soon as I push send, I cringe. I didn’t want to get into the ‘my mother raised me all on her own’ conversation. Nothing’s wrong with the topic, but it’s personal, and I don’t think Jaz and I are there yet. I see the dots bouncing on the screen, funnily enough I’m anxious for her reply. Expecting her to push me, she surprises me again.

SUPERNOVA: So, what are you going to do about it, Tor?

I growl at her response. I want to call her my goodgirl for doing what she was told, but again we aren’t there. Yet.

ME: I have three away games. I want you to watch them all. Can you do that for me, Supernova?

SUPERNOVA: I am sure there is so much more behind that name.

ME: You’re correct.

SUPERNOVA: Care to share?

ME: Not today.

SUPERNOVA: Fine. I’ll be working, “writing”, so for research purposes, I will be watching your games. I’ll make Lia watch them with me.

ME: Good. I’ll see you when I get back.

SUPERNOVA: Date?

ME: Nope. A test.

SUPERNOVA: I don’t work well under pressure, Tor.

I chuckle. This woman is going to be my undoing, and I’m not sure if I hate it. Hence, my name for her.

ME: I will be the judge of that, Miss Starr. Three days.

SUPERNOVA: Jaz. You will call me Jaz.

ME: Yes, ma’am. Jaz.

SUPERNOVA: Now, go and win for me. *winky face emoji*

I smile, choosing to drive instead of texting her back. Three days, Jaz, three long damn days before I get to see you again, and I can’t wait.

NINE

JAZ

Ilove my writing cave. Well, it’s less of a cave, more of a wide-open view of the world outside. It’s my sanctuary. A place only meant for me, where I can get lost in my thoughts and my daydreams. Where characters and worlds are built and torn apart, hearts are broken, love and happily ever afters created. The one place I can delve into the deepest, darkest parts of myself and freely purge it all in the form of prose, without questioning my sanity. I pour it all onto the pages of my books, then sit back and watch as my readers devour each word. I am a storyteller; I have no desire to be anything but this.

Leaning back in my comfy desk chair, I take in the room, scrutinizing every detail for the hundredth time today. Windows line the walls on three sides facing the front of the craftsman bungalow that I hadto have. I took one look at the traditional arts and crafts woodwork and fell in love with this place. My desk is built into the wall underneath the windows like a ledge, allowing me multiple vantage points to sit and write depending on the time of day. The polished parquet floor is covered in plush rugs, deliciously soft against my bare feet. An oversized beanbag chair sits in the corner that serves as both a reading nook and occasional napping spot. Bookshelves line the walls behind me, filled with not only my own books and merchandise, but books and keepsakes from some of my favorite authors. Yes, I am a writer, but I was a reader first. So, yeah, I have a little bit of an obsession. My library of smut and fantasy are what dreams are made of. Well, my dreams at least. The room is comfy and cozy, perfect for writing.

So, why am I sitting here daydreaming about a certain hockey player, his beautiful hazel eyes, that damn beard, and fuck me, those lips? Torrance Bailey has been living rent free inside my head for days now. When I sent him the thank you text two days ago, I didn’t expect him to suck me in like he did. I braved communicating with the hope of controlling the situation, maybe creating some professional boundaries. I posed questions about the innerworkings of the sport, and he answered, nothing more. If only it were that clear cut. Well, allof my careful planning went out the window as soon as I pushed send on my first message. The man is my own personal riptide, there’s little to no resistance as I let him pull me further into his ocean. I hate to admit it, but I could easily drown in it, in him, if I’m not careful. It was nothing but flirty banter, easy and playful, and I loved it. Short and sweet, with just a hint of the control I am sure he craves and needs. Yes, I got all that just from a few texts, and no, I am not thinking about how hot said control can be in any other capacity than the ice he skates on.

“Ugh. Write. I need to write,” I say out loud with a barely contained growl. My frustration with myself, the past few months, it’s a crushing weight pressing down on me. It’s as if the stress, negativity, and rampant anxiety manifested a monster of my own making, becoming sentient. I can almost hear its laughter at my weak and feeble attempts at regaining the strength and fight I lost.

Drumming my fingers anxiously in front of the keyboard I watch the blank screen of my laptop and will myself to type. I’ve been watching the Vipers play for the past two nights with Lia right beside me. I asked questions, she answered, and I took copious amounts of notes while drinking Aspall, my favorite British cider, and way too much buttered popcorn. The story is on the tip of my tongue, I can see it, butas soon as I sit down to write, my brain shuts down on me. If I don’t push past the mental barrier?—

“Nope.” I shake my head against the thought. I don’t want to think about missing my deadline. The thought of failure goes straight to my gut, making me nauseous. Failure is not an option. I’ve never failed at anything, and I don’t plan on doing it now.

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