Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“I’ve been exploring the city, tourist style,” I counter. “Especially since I didn’t have any friends to hang out with.” I try to make it sound like a jab, but it deflects off him with zero reaction.
“Or you’ve been going there to see Coach’s daughter. Playing, animal-style.” I really hate that he’s calling her “Coach’s daughter” like that’s all she is. Even worse, I hate that he makes what Briar and I are doing sound dirty, and not in the good way. No, he makes it sound like . . . the Blizzard way.
I grit my teeth, refusing to answer even though it wasn’t a question in the first place. I was expecting a trap about team dynamics, not about my personal life, and I’m feeling unprepared, a sensation I don’t particularly enjoy.
Reading people is what I do, but as I stare at Kipson, I can’t tell what he’s thinking at all. Is this the gotcha moment? Is Coach about to jump out from the next booth and fire me? Or is Kipson going to use this intel to blackmail me into leaving him alone? That seems more likely, I think. At this point, I’m not sure what his angle is, but I need to suss it out . . . quick.
“I know that she was making eyes at you the whole time we were at that fundraiser shindig. I know that every time Anderson spoke to her, you looked like you wanted to murder him with your bare hands.” He chuckles, admitting, “Though if Anderson had said one word to Sofia, I would’ve done the same. Still might.” There’s truth in the words. Even now, he’s one too-sharp verbal barb away from attacking Anderson.
Maybe I can use that?
“Did he ever try anything with her?” I ask like I care, and on some level, I do. But that concern is far down on my priority list, way beneath “protect Briar.”
Kipson doesn’t let me redirect us. “Nuh-uh, I said she was off-limits.”
“So you expect me to pour my guts out while not returning the favor? Got it. Seems fair.” I roll my eyes as I tip my head back, taking a long drink of my beer.
“There are guts to be spilled?” he says, one brow arched in victory over a stupidly cocky smirk.
Score: Kipson 1, Lee 0.
I drop my beer to the table, locking my gaze on him with my mouth firmly closed.
He shrugs. “Yeah, Anderson tried flirting with Sofia. She told him off, which hurt his feelings. And I didn’t have her back like I should’ve. Told her he was just fucking around, not being serious. In way-too-late hindsight, he was testing limits. Hers, mine, the team’s.”
Damn. That’s some shitty behavior from a friend. From a teammate. “That motherfucker.”
“Your turn,” Kipson says flatly. “I shared. Now you.”
I could tell him the whole story—of talking to Briar that first night, of connecting over hockey drills with Harley, of how beautiful and strong and resilient she is, of how I’m falling for her faster than sanity should allow. Instead, I ask, “What do you want from me here?”
He leans forward, elbows on the table, and hands crossed in front of him. “You want everyone to get on board with your team-building tactics, right?” I nod. “Yet you’re not being entirely forthcoming with us.”
He has a point. But we’re barely past two truths and a lie territory with the group, definitely not entering the realm of deepest, darkest secrets. Well, other than Bill.
“So you’re testing me? My willingness to be honest?” I say, the pieces coming together slowly. “Scoring my teammate compatibility, if you will?”
He frowns, inclining his head. “You could say that. Or you could call it dedication to the cause.”
He’s framing it as the team or Briar. Both are important to me, but there’s no decision here. I will protect Briar first and foremost. Especially since I don’t trust Kipson yet. He’s been hurt, and wounded animals are likely to lash out at a rescuer. Briar told me that as animal trivia, but I already knew it from the most dangerous animal of all—humans. It’s what we do.
“Let me ask you a question before I answer yours.”
Kipson sits back in his chair, by all appearances open to whatever I’m going to ask, but that painful wound in the middle of his chest . . . yeah, I’m about to poke it with a stick. A sharp one. “Do you blame the team for what went down with you and Sofia?”
His jaw goes tight as he clenches and unclenches his teeth. “Why?”
“Relevant to the topic at hand.” It’s the most I can give until he answers.
He spins his beer on the coaster, eyes going vacant as the past replays in his mind. “Yes and no. They shouldn’t have said the shit they did. It put thoughts in my head that wouldn’t have been there otherwise. But that’s on me. I said what I said, I did what I did, instead of seeing what was happening and fixing it. They fucked me up, but I fucked up my marriage. I pushed her away with my own bullshit.” His voice is flat and emotionless, but the heaviness of his guilt settles over him like a weighted cloak. Coming back to the present, he glances at me. “Joke’s on them, though. They thought that without Sofia, I’d hyperfocus on hockey and become one of them. Instead, I want to destroy everything and I’ve never cared less about hockey than I do now.”