Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
And he absolutely does not look at me like he wants to devour me. Layla is totally, 100 percent wrong about that. Mild non-loathing, that’s all it is. Which is great, considering its progress, but there’s definitely no eating of any sort going on here.
Still, poking the grumpy grizzly bear that seems to live inside Griffin is a bad idea, especially during a game this important. So, yep, it’s a good thing I’m up here, cheering my heart out and shaking my ass . . . far, far away.
I only watch Griffin a little bit, all the while telling myself that I’m really watching Dominic play, the same way I have my whole life, as his biggest cheerleader. I almost believe it too . . .
“Ooooh!”
The audience reacts to a particularly aggressive play on the ice, where a duo of Vortex players try to sandwich Dom against the boards with a borderline blindside check. Griffin’s right there, and he’s pissed. I mean, Honey. Dom and Honey, the badass hockey players who have each other’s backs.
“Shit,” I whisper under my breath.
Griffin—I mean, Honey—throws his gloves to the ice and goes in on one of the Vortex players. Patterson, the larger of the two, of course. Meanwhile, Dom and the other player are fighting, but it’s for show, some shoving and sweater pulling but nothing major. The real battle is Honey and Patterson.
My breath catches as I watch him do what he does best. Annihilate.
I’m torn between staring at the close-up on the jumbotron and the real action on the ice. Both are violent, and I find myself caring if Griffin gets hurt in a way I never have before.
Because we need him for the playoffs.
I don’t even believe my own lie. Griffin’s more than a caricature of an asshole to me now, more than the annoying jerk my brother brings around. He’s Griffin, the guy who helped me yesterday when he didn’t have to, and was mostly nice about it. And also, the guy I need to relieve of any misunderstandings about what happened at my door before he spreads that gossip any further.
“Get him!” I shout, sounding a bit too bloodthirsty for a proper cheerleader.
Thankfully, Layla doesn’t scold me for it and instead gives me a knowing look as she mouths, Beast.
The whole thing feels like minutes but is actually only seconds, and when Honey pushes Patterson away, they’re both grinning around their mouth guards like that was the most fun they’ve had in ages. Grabbing their gloves, they both skate to the penalty box, ready for their mutual five-minute time-out.
Play resumes, both teams shorthanded, and I finally breathe again.
By the final buzzer, I’m a wreck inside. Griffin has always been the enforcer for the Hawks, and I’ve seen him fight hundreds of times. Never has every single shoulder check, punch, or slam against the boards sent my heart rate skyrocketing and opened a pit in my stomach. But tonight? It felt like I was the one engaged in the violence on the ice. Well, probably not that painful, given I’ve seen some of the bruises and black eyes Griffin has had over the years, but my whole body is tight in a way that has nothing to do with the dancing that’s second nature to me.
But the Hawks win, two to one, which is what matters, and I shake my poms overhead, smiling widely as I watch the players celebrate. Through the crowd of guys, I swear I see Griffin glance up toward the cheerleader stage, but I have to be wrong. There’s no reason for him to do that.
No reason at all.
At home, after I’ve showered and put on pajamas, I text Dom the same way I have after every game he’s played in the NHL.
Great game! Congrats on the win!
The reply comes back almost instantly.
Thanks. You get home okay?
Who needs Mom and Dad being all up in my business when I’ve got a brother like Dominic Lee? Actually, he’s more protective than Mom and Dad have been in years. They realize I’m grown and need to stretch my wings. Dom, not so much.
I think he’d rather I be a pretty bird in a gilded cage, safely tucked away where nothing and no one could hurt me. I’m not sure why or when he got such a burr in his ass about me being a delicate little thing. Or maybe he doesn’t think I’m fragile, but rather that I’m a mess?
That seems more likely since I can be messy—current predicament as evidentiary example one—but it’s not like I call him to bail me out of jail at three in the morning on the regular. It was just that one time, years ago, when I snuck out to go to a party at some kid’s house and it got raided. I’d used my one phone call to wake him up, and as a legal adult of all of nineteen, I’d been released into his care since our parents were away on vacation, which they totally hadn’t been. Dom never ratted me out, though, just made me promise to never go to another high school drinking party again. I kept that promise, at least until college, but sometimes Dom acts like I’m still a wild child teenager, not the stable, independent, responsible adult I mostly am.