Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
But now I’m on my heels, chasing Karlsson as possession changes. I’ve got to get it back from that asshole. I can’t let a distraction interfere with my game.
No such luck though.
The shift changes ten seconds later, and I hop over the boards, irritated. Falcon claps me on the back. “We’ll get ‘em next time,” the defenseman says.
I nod, grabbing my water bottle. “We fucking will.” Shaking it off, I take a long, thirsty drink, trying not to look at center ice.
At the seats I got for Skylar.
I keep my gaze on the action, watching the opponents like I’m studying the penguins in that brain game I played earlier. The game that’s supposed to help me keep my focus when it matters.
Like, say, now.
But another voice says, Maybe just one look is fine.
Then I think of Leah and what she said earlier today: Your discipline is unmatched. But you don’t have to do extra to play at peak performance. You’re doing great as you are.
While my teammates battle by the boards for the puck, I give myself permission to do ten reps…by stealing a glance at center ice at last.
Skylar’s shouting, cheering us on, and—wait. Is she wearing a number fourteen jersey?
Holy shit. She is.
A dumb smile spreads across my face. I look down, so it’s not obvious to everyone. Best if I look fierce, angry, glowering.
Then I read the words on my water bottle one more time before the shift change.
Surprise Them.
My mantra since I surprised the whole damn league by sticking around when no one thought I’d make it to the pros.
When it’s time for the next line change, I hop over the boards with Bryant and Falcon, locking in. New York barely sees it coming when Falcon strips the puck from their forward and flicks it to Bryant.
I am nothing but concentration as Bryant flings it my way.
I assess their goalie, watching as he sets up for me to bite on the slap shot. Then, at the last second, I switch to a wrist shot.
It slips right through his legs. He’s…surprised.
The crowd roars, and Bryant bumps my chest. “You old dog. You can learn new tricks,” he says.
“Right. I learned that from you,” I say, but I can’t even be sarcastic. We’re ahead now, and all I want is to keep it that way.
This time, I don’t fight the impulse.
Because focus isn’t about fighting distractions. It’s about not letting them get the better of you.
And Skylar, cheering me on in a jersey with my number? That’s not something I want to miss.
I tip my forehead in her direction as she cheers louder. The woman next to her leans in and whispers something in her ear.
Skylar just smiles and keeps cheering.
And we keep winning.
When the game ends and my teammates cheer and high-five, I glide past center ice, mouthing to her, “Nice jersey.”
She gives a sassy pop of her hips. “This thing? Found it in a discount bin,” she shouts.
I laugh. She loves to knock me down a peg.
And you love it when she does that.
The thing is, I really do.
Shame I didn’t make plans with her for after the game. But I dismiss that thought. We’re…neighbors. Sort of friends. Definitely working together.
There’s no need to make plans.
But I’m not annoyed one bit when I let Zamboni into the yard later that night to do her business and see Skylar across the fence with Simon running in circles.
The trouble is, Skylar’s staring at her phone, her brow furrowed in tight concentration. Her lips are a ruler.
I strain to listen to whatever she’s watching and catch a man’s voice through the speaker: “We’re just so grateful that she was so supportive, and how the universe has brought us together to open our dream board game store.”
Skylar looks up, livid. I don’t know what’s on that video, but whatever it is, it just ruined her night.
I want to jump over the fence and comfort her. Instead, I step closer to the four-foot-high wooden fence that separates our yards, resting a hand on top of the painted wood, Zamboni parking herself dutifully at my feet.
“What’s going on?”
Skylar flinches, then looks up from her phone. With a frown, she stabs the screen, ending the video. “Just my ex,” she says with a shrug like it’s no big deal. She shoves the phone into her pocket. “It’s fine.”
“You sure?” I ask, worried.
But embarrassment flickers in her pretty green eyes, visible even in the dark.
Simon yips, and she bends to pick him up. “It’s fine, buddy.”
The little brown and tan guy snuggles against her chest. Lucky dog. But I force myself to look up at her, not at the burrowing critter.
“Skylar.” My tone is stern. I want her to tell me what’s going on.
She draws a steadying breath, meeting my gaze with a cheery, “How are you? Great game. Thanks again for the tickets. It was so fun.”