Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“It was exactly like that,” I reply calmly.
Storm looks between us again, putting it together. “You’re telling me what I think you’re tell—”
“I’m telling you,” I cut in, “that loyalty means different things to different people, and you should keep your girlfriend away from certain people or they’ll accidentally fuck them.”
Storm’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“Jesus.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “So, you two hate each other because you—”
“Because loyalty has a sliding scale.”
Declan’s eyes flash. “You weren’t there for her.”
Her. Meaning Bailey?
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “All we need to know is I didn’t sleep with your girlfriend.”
It’s a brutal thing to say, stunning both my teammates.
Silence.
Storm looks at Declan. “Holy. Shit.”
Around us, players from both teams continue warming up, oblivious to the tension at center ice. A ref skates past with a whistle in his mouth, toward the bench to speak with our coaches.
Meanwhile, the ice below us feels thin, about to crack.
“And now Bishop is dating my sister. Does that seem like a coincidence?”
There it is.
The revenge plot.
“In Aaron’s defense,” Storm says carefully, “I’d also like to date your sister.”
“Shut the fuck up, Storm.”
He lifts both hands in surrender. “I’m just saying. She’s off limits, I get it. But objectively, she’s a solid ten. I understand the appeal.”
“This isn’t funny,” Declan snaps.
“No,” Storm agrees, dropping the humor. “It’s not.”
Declan’s stare never leaves mine. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? I get caught, and suddenly you’re real interested in my family.”
Storm studies me over the cage on his mask. “You gotta admit. The optics aren’t great.”
Declan huffs. “Optics? He walked in on me and Bailey, and now he’s conveniently dating my sister. That’s motive.” His frown gets deeper. “My sister is not a pawn.”
Storm exhales. “Fuckin A this is messy.”
Declan leans in. “If Juliette gets hurt because you’re trying to make a point—”
“I’m not making a point,” I lie.
“Then what the fuck are you doing with her?”
I don’t have an answer fast enough.
Kennedy shoves me, gloves planted in the center of my chest, pushing with the kind of force that shows he’s all but forgotten we’re in the middle of the goddamn ice. In front of thousands of people.
I damn near lose my balance when he shoves me a second time.
“You motherfucker,” I yell, desperate to shove back.
Storm plants himself between us again, shoving a glove into each of our chests.
“Christ, enough already! Whatever unresolved revenge drama you two have going on, it can wait until after we win.”
Declan tries to sidestep him. “I’m going to end you.”
“End me for sleeping with Juliette?” I taunt with a laugh. “You looking to lose more teeth, Kennedy?”
His nostrils flare behind his face mask. “Say her name one more goddamn time.”
I smile. “Juliette.”
Storm groans. “Oh my god, you assholes. Stop.”
He glances toward the stands, straight to the family section designated for parents, wives, partners, children, and friends of players, and gives a low whistle.
Declan and I follow his gaze.
And there she is.
Front row of that section.
Laughing at something the woman next to her is saying, bright blue knit hat on her head, jersey pulled down over a hoodie, mittens wrapped around a beer, oblivious to the fact that her name was weaponized at center ice.
“What are you going to do?” I laugh, leaning on my stick. “Ground her? Take away her car keys?”
“Fuck you.”
“Don’t worry.” I clap a glove to his shoulder and give him another forceful shove, my eyes on the referee standing not too far behind him. “She’s not watching you.”
“Fuck you,” he says again.
“No—fuck you.”
Juliette is scanning the ice now, hand lifted to shield her eyes from the glare of the lights as she squints through the glass.
Then she sees us.
Her face brightens.
And she waves.
Mittened hand in the air, bouncing slightly as she stretches up on her toes.
I don’t hesitate; I wave back.
Declan waves too.
Storm—because he’s a fucking idiot—also waves.
For half a second, we look like idiots lined up at center ice, three grown men in helmets waving at the family section like it’s a parade float.
Juliette laughs and waves again.
“She’s waving at me, you prick, put your hand down,” her brother snaps.
“You wish she was waving at you.” I grin wider, lifting my glove higher to piss him off.
Storm keeps his glove in the air. “Let’s not rule anyone out. I’ve got great cheekbones.”
“She’s wearing my jersey, asshole,” Declan announces, like that settles it.
“I’ll give her one of mine later tonight, when she’s at my place.”
Declan’s hand drops immediately.
Storm’s too.
The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of warm ups.
“You want to say that again?” Declan asks, voice dangerously calm.
Storm grabs my arm. “Dude. No.”
I shrug him off. “What? It’s not illegal to change clothes.”
“You are actively trying to get punched,” Storm mutters, lacing his gloved hand through my arm again and tugging me toward the bench. “Quit while you’re ahead.”