Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
But winning can’t silence the past trauma that haunts him when the arena lights go dark.
Daisy Turner was fired from a top style magazine for asking questions powerful men didn't want to answer and exposing hypocrisy in the world of high-fashion. She's looking to salvage her career as a journalist by scraping together a second chance as Grizz's new media handler. Fearless in her own right, she carries scars from a betrayal that taught her trust is a currency she can't afford to spend freely.
From their first combustible meeting, Grizz and Daisy collide in a battle of wills neither is prepared to lose. She challenges him, and he can't look away. What begins as mutual provocation becomes far more dangerous when the walls between professional and personal start to crumble, and the wreckage of Grizz's past threatens to destroy the one person brave enough to see through his rock-solid armor.
Grizz is a scorching, emotionally charged hockey romance about two people who were never supposed to fall for each other, and the bruising, tender, inevitable collision that happens when they do
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Grizz
They say the game slows down when you’re in the zone.
Mine doesn’t.
It speeds up.
Skates cut into the ice. My lungs burn, but the adrenaline makes it feel like ecstasy instead of pain. I’ve got the puck and I know the guy on my tail is a rookie, legs too long, instincts too green. He’s guessing and I’m not.
I fake a pass to my left winger, Deacon Campbell. The defenseman on Philly bites hard and it’s a rookie mistake. I pivot, cut right, and my stick readies as I cock my wrists, snapping the puck. The net’s wide open and the goalie’s gone sprawling. I don’t hesitate, rifling a shot top shelf, tickling the twine, the best feeling for a hockey player at any level.
My second goal of the night and the crowd roars, unhinged. Absolutely electric. Noise so visceral it vibrates and rattles through the boards, up the glass, and straight into your bones. Vipers fans from ice-level to the rafters are on their feet, fists pumping, beers sloshing, screaming my name.
“GRIZZ! GRIZZ! GRIZZ!”
Kids in face paint pound the glass. Grown men wearing my jersey are hoarse from yelling. A woman in the fourth row jumps up and down, holding a homemade sign that says #GRIZZMODE. Another fan a few rows over holds one up that reads LET THE BEAST ROAM.
I coast along the glass, eyes scanning the raucous crowd as they cheer me on, flashing my million-dollar smile. My teammates are pounding the boards with their sticks, screaming my name too.
But I barely hear them.
I’m in that place—the sweet spot between chaos and control—and I fucking live for this shit.
I skate back to the bench as though I own the rink. Hell, as far as I’m concerned, I own all of New York City.
And for tonight, I really do.
Coach Carlin’s jaw is a granite slab. He’s fighting to mask his satisfaction and losing badly. Mid-fifties, a former enforcer who collected bruises the way some men collect one-night stands, Carlin wears a perpetual five o’clock shadow and a scowl that survives even victories. His trademark beige suit hangs on his stocky frame. Game days are the few times he swaps his track pants and lanyard for an outfit resembling respectability. The only colorful thing about him is his vocabulary when I screw up.
“You just had to drop the elbow on 25, huh?” he says as I hop over the boards and slide onto the bench.
I grin around my mouth guard. “He tried to take my head off in the second period. What’d you want me to do, offer him a juice box?”
“You’re gonna get suspended. Again.”
“We’re leading by two,” I shoot back as I grab a water bottle and squirt it into my mouth, then spit some back onto the ice. “You want clean or you want goals and wins?”
Coach doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t bench me either.
The third period ticks down. We’re still up by two, but Philly’s playing desperate. Slashing sticks. Late hits. Cheap shots after whistles. I can feel the tension in the frigid air of the arena.
It’s early October, just about a month into the season, the time when everyone’s still out to prove they’re top dog and tempers burn hot. We’re all highly combustible after the long summer we had to endure since we were knocked out of the playoffs early last season.
Coach gives me a look like he’s debating whether I’m a weapon or a liability. He sends me back out, anyway.
“Keep your head, Grizz. Nothing stupid out there,” he shouts as I jump over the boards onto the ice.
“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” I snap back.
I prepare for the face-off in our zone, crouching low, tapping my stick twice on the ice. To my left is our winger, Tanner Wylie. This is the third season we’ve played together, and we’ve been inseparable as line mates since he arrived in a trade from Chicago. He knows where I am on the ice at all times and vice versa. The Philly center stares me down, trying to look tougher than he is. We both know how this is going to end.
I win it clean and direct it over to Tanner before taking off like a slingshot, cutting across center ice with blinding speed. He threads it back to me on the fly and I catch it, burning past their defense, all open ice and forward momentum.
Then I see him… number 25, Wiggins. He’s got a gnarly beard and a missing front tooth. He’s the same bastard who threw that high hit on me, a transgression that I can’t ignore. He’s coming for me again and this time he doesn’t care about the puck at all, just my head.
Shoulders down. Ugly intent written all over his face.
I cut hard, shift the puck to my backhand, but he clips me high and late. Not enough to drop me, but enough to rattle my cage.