Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Who says I’m mad?” I smirk. “If I were, believe me, you’d know it.”
Dillon hesitates, as if remembering what I’m capable of. “Bro, it’s not my fault you went away.”
“Bro? You’re not my fucking bro.”
“No, you don’t have one anymore.”
I’m off the glass and moving toward the prick before I realize what’s happening.
“Logan?”
My mother’s voice freezes my momentum. I take a step back as she closes in, her deep scarlet Canada Goose parka marking her anywhere in the rink. It was a Christmas gift some years back. The whole family went in to cover the steep price tag.
My father trails her.
“What happened with Isla?” Worry shines in her eyes, but I can’t tell if it’s for Emery’s daughter or for her son, for what she’s afraid I was about to do.
“Not sure. Emery went to see her.”
“Oh. Okay.” She fastens her zipper all the way up to her chin to ward off the cold.
“Hi, Annie,” Dillon offers cordially.
She responds with a tight-lipped smile. “Donna was looking for you.” Even a stranger can see she despises the man, and she has ever since the day Sandy McAllister broke the news about the affair.
Dillon peers over his shoulder at the stands but doesn’t take the hint.
My father rolls his eyes. He always says that if Annie Landry takes issue with you, it’s one hundred percent your fault because she’s a goddamn saint for all she’s put up with over the years.
I don’t disagree.
Emery reappears from the change room then.
“What’d Isla say?” Dillon pushes.
Her jaw is clenched, her focus locked, as she marches past us without a word, aiming for the stands.
We exchange frowns and then Dillon chases after his ex-wife.
Isla hovers near the door, out of her hockey gear and red-faced, both from the game and from crying.
Like a nickel to a magnet, my mother rushes for the girl.
“You can’t go anywhere without getting into it,” my dad mutters, and I can’t tell if he’s accusing me of something or stating a fact. “What was that all about, with you and him?”
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing.”
“A cheap shot about Jay. He was being a dick.” And reacting with my physical size has become second nature to me.
My father sighs heavily. “Yeah, he’s real good at that. I can’t tell you how many times Clive wanted to knock sense into that son-in-law of his. He was secretly thrilled when they split.”
“I know I was.” It felt like Christmas morning the day I read that update.
“He can make your life hell, though. I remember when your mother was getting permits for the market. It took a lot longer than it should have, and I think it had to do with him not wanting that competition for his family’s grocery store. ’Course, I can’t prove that.” My dad hesitates. “Whatever is happening between you and Emery—”
“Nothing’s happening. Nothing.” No one asked why Emery left dinner abruptly that night. They’re all smart enough to see that my relationship with her is a pile of broken mirror glass. Sure, we could cobble the pieces together but not without earning ourselves countless cuts, and then what? The finished product will never work like it used to.
“You have no leeway, Logan. Not an inch. You can’t lose your temper on anyone, but especially not on Cold River’s mayor in the middle of a packed arena.”
“Yeah. I know.” But I almost did. Hopefully no one noticed. I caught plenty of curious gazes when I walked through those arena doors, which is why I beelined for what I thought was a safe, quiet corner.
This is exactly why I don’t leave our property. But at least I got to talk to Emery.
“Holt!” my mother calls out. She hovers over Isla, gripping her shoulders with affection. “We’re gonna sit in the truck where it’s quiet.”
He nods, sparing a wink for Isla before those two vanish.
The buzzer goes and the Zamboni doors open, signaling a flood between the periods.
A man and woman follow Emery down the bleacher steps, their faces stony.
“Someone’s about to get their ass handed to them,” my father muses as Emery leads the couple—parents, I assume—our way, Dillon on their heels like a third tit trying to prove it has use.
“Erin Griffin!” Emery calls, beckoning the girl over with a two-finger waggle.
My dad and I stand against the boards and watch as the girl hobbles across the rubber mats, her gait awkward in her skates. The rest of her team heads for their change room.
“Hello, Erin, I’m Staff Sergeant McAllister,” Emery begins calmly but formally, her face a mask, revealing nothing. She was like this that night the girls threw the rock through my window.
Erin’s wary eyes dart to her parents. “I, uh, know who you are.”
“Good. My detachment is helping with the investigation—”
“What’s going on here?” the Cold River coach interrupts, his scowl severe as he storms in. “Come on, we’re in the middle of a game. Can’t this wait?”