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)
And I nearly trip on my skates when I read the big, bubbly letters—yellow, outlined with black. I’d Knock So Hard To See That.
I fight off a smile the entire time I’m warming up from the insider joke. But also from the color. And when it’s game time, I do everything I can to channel my River Ranger mentality and push her out of my mind.
We’re down by one with nine minutes left in the game. I’m battling it out in the corners with a Phoenix defenseman, who’s shoving me into the boards. He jams an elbow into my ribs. A sharp, bone-rattling ache lances through me. But I put it out of my mind and jab my stick toward the puck.
Ha. Take that, asshole.
I’m off and racing away from the big guy. I’m faster—that’s the job as a forward. I leave him in a spray of ice, passing the puck to Bryant in the neutral zone.
My teammate flies down the ice, full speed ahead. Bryant closes in on the net with our defenseman Rowan Bishop flanking him. With one swift move, Bryant lifts his stick, and smacks that little black disc. In no time, it zips past the goalie and lodges into the twine.
“Yes!” I shout, racing down to high-five Bryant as the lamp lights. “Let’s do it again,” I shout, since we’re not there yet.
“We’re gonna get another,” he says.
“We fucking will.”
We skate over to the boards for the line change. Once I hop over, I hazard a glance across the ice.
Skylar’s on her feet, cheering the goal, jumping up and down.
My chest floods with endorphins. From the goal, I think. Or maybe not.
Because these heady feelings don’t dissipate. They seem to spread as Skylar’s red hair tumbles around her heart-shaped face, her cheeks bright, her eyes probably full of mischief and excitement. She looks so damn good in my jersey.
I just can’t stop looking at her.
Briefly, I remember Brittany coming to games. She always wore my gear too, but looking back, there was something performative about it. Something she seemed to enjoy about being a hockey wife.
With Skylar, it feels real. Like that joy over the goal came from deep within her.
I have to keep reminding myself it’s not real. But it’s getting harder especially when we win, and I impulsively skate over to her and do the very thing she asked me to do. I blow her a kiss.
Well, it’s for San Francisco Neighborhoods.
That’s what I tell myself.
But I know the truth. It’s for me.
“Yup. Called it. Our boy is hap-hap-happy,” Bryant sings in the locker room, flinging his jersey into the laundry bin.
I scowl. “Never pretended I wasn’t.”
Miles scoffs as he unties his skates.
Tyler laughs, while icing his shoulder.
“What? I’m not the team grump,” I argue, nodding toward our defenseman Rowan Bishop—the one who took that title from Max Lambert.
“That’s right. I own that,” Rowan deadpans as he stretches his neck from side to side.
Wesley rolls his eyes. “Not the point, boys. Not the point.” He turns to me. “You were always sarcastic as fuck. Always steady. Always a grinder.” He smirks. “Now you’re a fucking sap.” He claps his hands together and cackles like a madman. “And I love it.”
“Because he’s a sap like you.” Lambert grunts as he tugs on a T-shirt.
Wesley points to Max. “And you.” Then to Asher. “And you.” Then Miles. “And you.” Then Tyler. “And you, and you, and you.”
I roll my eyes and wave a dismissive hand, turning my back so they can’t read my face while I change. Because they’re not wrong. I am raring to get out of here and see Skylar.
But before I can do that, the team publicist, Everly, knocks on the door, and calls out, “Are you decent?”
Max—her fiancé—shouts, “Never.”
She pokes her head in. “Ford, can you join Wesley for the press tonight? With your assist and all, it’d be good to have you there.”
“Of course,” I say.
After I pull on a T-shirt, shorts, and slides, I head into the media room and run through the usual game-day questions. Easy stuff. How did you feel out there, what were you thinking late in the game, and so on.
Until Gus—grizzled, sharp-eyed, and probably born in a press box—leans forward. “You’re having a great season—and it’s your last one. How does it feel to be a month in and playing like this?”
It’s a simple question, but it’s loaded with meaning.
If I say I feel good, I invite hypercritical attention. If I hesitate, they’ll read that as doubt. Either way, it’s a trap. I sidestep. “Any player wants to have a strong year.”
Then another reporter pipes up—a younger guy from The Sports Network. “Is your new girlfriend the reason?”
It catches me off guard. My brow furrows. “I don’t think she has anything to do with the assist,” I say, but that sounds callous. “But I’m glad she was here.”