Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“It’s not even what they said,” I murmur, tracing the rim of my mug. “It’s that… I kind of believed the comments. That I’m not the type of woman someone like Lucky Branson ends up with.”
Mila sets her drink down. “Why would you think that?”
I glance around the table at these beautiful women, suddenly self-conscious. “When I first googled Lucky—don’t judge me—it was just… I found woman after woman. Gorgeous. Model-level beautiful. And then there’s me, with my teacher cardigans and outdated name and a judgmental rabbit.”
Willa laughs gently. “Buttermilk is a vibe, not a flaw.”
“But it’s hard not to feel like I’m in over my head,” I say quietly. “He’s on billboards. People scream his name in arenas. But I’m not that and—”
“You are gorgeous,” Mila defends me.
I incline my head at her. “Yeah… I’m pretty in an average way, sure, but I’m not a bombshell that can command the attention of a man like Lucky. And this morning, a really popular influencer went on a rant and shredded me and Lucky as a couple.”
Everyone collectively groans.
“Fucking people,” Farren says and looks like she wants to murder someone.
“People are cruel,” Mila says. “And they’re especially cruel to women who take up space in a world they don’t think we belong in. It drives me nuts when women turn on each other.”
Farren nods. “I’ve been around professional hockey for years between Rafferty and North. I still have to remind myself that I’m enough. Not for him, he makes it clear I am, but for the noise. The spotlight. The stories people make up just because you’re with someone public.”
“Same,” Willa adds. “I’ve questioned if I was glamorous enough for King. But that man would crawl across broken glass just to warm up my car in the winter.”
Tempe leans in, smiles softly. “Lucky looks at you like you hung the moon. I’ve seen it.”
My throat tightens a little. “I know he cares. I do. But it’s hard to quiet the voice that says I’m temporary. That I’m not built for his world.”
“Well,” Willa says, swirling her drink, “let me remind you of something very important… you didn’t chase him. He came for you.”
I blink.
“You made a joke on TikTok,” she continues, “and the man showed up with snacks at your school in a borrowed, beat-up Corolla and hasn’t stopped orbiting you since. Sounds to me like you’re exactly what he’s looking for. Men don’t do that unless they are truly interested.”
Tempe nods enthusiastically. “You’re not a side character in his story, Winnie. You’re it. He’s already cast himself in yours.”
Oh, those affirmations are so nice to hear, and I clearly need them.
Farren raises her glass. “To Winnie Shaw—the woman who reminds us that being real is more important than being vapid.”
Everyone laughs and clinks glasses. Even me, though I’m blinking hard to keep the tears from slipping because their support has really touched me deep.
“I guess I just don’t want to mess it up,” I whisper.
“You won’t,” Farren says. “You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not pretending to be something you’re not. You’re being you. And Lucky’s crazy about that.”
“And if anyone gives you crap again,” Willa adds, “send them my way. I’ve got a list of petty insults I’ve been saving since high school.”
We all burst out laughing again, and the weight in my chest eases.
I may not be able to control what people say about me online or whisper in bathrooms or comment under videos—but I can control what I choose to believe.
I just have to keep remembering that, and maybe at some point, it will feel true.
CHAPTER 31
Lucky
The clock’s bleeding out.
Twenty seconds left in regulation. Tie game. Legs burning. Heart pounding.
The point in time that shrinks the world down to ice and breath and instinct. The San Diego crowd is on edge, their voices a wall of sound that buzzes through my helmet like static.
I’m gassed, but I don’t let up.
Not now.
Not when the playoffs are on the line and we’re one goal away from clinching our spot.
Then it happens.
A bad pass from their right wing, just sloppy enough to become an opportunity. The puck clips off his teammate’s skate and pops loose near the blue line.
I’m on it in a blink.
Stick down. One clean intercept.
My brain stops thinking. Instinct takes over. It’s just angles, pressure and timing now.
I pivot hard, cutting left, and their D-man—number 47—hesitates for half a second too long. I blow past him like he’s stuck in slush. Anders comes up on my right, calling for the puck, but I don’t dish it.
Because I see it.
The opening. A seam between both defenders, just wide enough to thread a prayer through.
Ten seconds.
The goalie reads me a little too early—he shifts weight toward the post, his glove hand twitching upward. That’s all I need.
I drop my shoulder, sell the move like I’m cutting inside, and then flick my wrist—quick, sharp, surgical. The puck lifts.