Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
I’m walking toward the exit when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Ryan. It’s a link to a sports article with a caption that reads: Can you believe this prick?
I click the link. It's a piece about Jaxson Thorne's recent shutout and his comments to the press. Or rather, his silence. The article describes how he stood motionless, refusing to answer questions until reporters finally gave up. The photo shows him leaning against the goalpost, his mask up, sweat dripping down a face that looks entirely too handsome for someone so miserable. He looks bored. He looks like he thinks the world owes him a debt it can never pay.
I type a quick message back to my brother.
Me
Looks like he needs a nap and a personality transplant.
Ryan
You can say that again. How was your shift?
Me
The usual. It sucked monkey balls.
Ryan
What can I do to help you?
Me
Nothing. I’m headed home for at least six hours of uninterrupted sleep. Then I’ll be all new again.
He sends a GIF of a snoring English Bulldog, and I laugh. Ryan always knows what I need. He’s always been the wall between me and the world, ever since our dad left and it was just Mom and us. He took on the job of taking care of both of us.
The drive home is a blur of gray Seattle morning. I live in a studio apartment near the park, a space filled with succulents I struggle to keep alive and mystery books I barely have the time to read. It’s small, but it’s mine. It’s a place where the chaos of the hospital can’t reach me.
I shower, scrubbing the hospital off my skin until it’s pink and stinging. I avoid the mirror, knowing the dark circles under my eyes will only make me feel more tired. I fall into bed and sleep a heavy, dreamless sleep that lasts until the afternoon sun starts peeking through the blinds.
When I wake up, the gala feels more like a looming threat than a social event. I pull the emerald dress out of the closet. It’s silk, the color of a deep forest after a rainstorm, with a neckline that’s professional enough to wear to a work function but daring enough for a woman who hasn't been on a date in eighteen months. I trace the fabric, thinking of Mia’s teasing words.
I’m not looking for a movie moment. I’m looking to survive the evening without spilling red wine on myself or getting trapped in a conversation about hockey.
CHAPTER THREE
JAXSON
The chandelier light in the Fairmont ballroom is aggressive, shattering against thousands of crystal droplets and raining down on a sea of people I mostly want to avoid. I adjust my tie for the tenth time, the silk feeling like a noose. Usually, I can play the part of the 'Ice Wall' without cracking, but tonight, the air is too thin, crowded with the scent of expensive perfume and the desperate hum of social climbing.
Mick McLinden, my captain and the only person who can tolerate me for more than five minutes, nudges my elbow with a champagne flute. "Stop looking like you're calculating the fastest exit route to the parking garage, Jax. It's a charity gala. Smile for the sick kids."
"I am smiling," I say, my face remaining a mask of granite. "Internally. It’s a very deep, meaningful expression of joy."
"That look on your face reminds me of the clown hiding in the sewer trying to lure small children in," Mick mutters, taking a sip of his drink. He scans the room, his eyes bright with the kind of social ease I’ve never managed to replicate. "But hey, look on the bright side. At least your favorite person isn't here yet. I haven't seen Ryan Coleman’s smug face anywhere."
The mention of Coleman makes my jaw tighten instinctively. The rivalry isn't just a media narrative; it's a physical weight that settles behind my ribs every time we're in the same zip code. I scan the perimeter, expecting to see the New York star forward soaking up the limelight, but instead, my gaze snags on something else. Or, rather, someone.
She’s standing near the stage, partially obscured by a massive floral arrangement. She isn't wearing the standard black or silver that seems to be the uniform of the evening. She’s in a deep, vibrant emerald that makes everything else in the room look washed out. The silk of her dress clings to her curves with a quiet confidence, and her hair is pinned up, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
I feel a strange, sharp pull in my chest. It isn't the usual thrum of adrenaline I get before a puck drops. This is slower, heavier. It's a spiral I can't seem to break. I notice the delicate but firm way she holds her glass. And the way she isn't scanning the room for celebrities, but seems focused on the notes in her hand. She looks like a calm center in the middle of a hurricane.