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)
Shaking his head, he declares, “I was fine without them before, and I’ll be fine without them again. I’ll lose the only family I’ve ever had, my best friend, and you in one fell swoop. It was bound to happen eventually anyway. It’s what I deserve.”
“Oh, quit with the poor-me pity party.” I play the tiniest violin with my thumb and index finger. “Come to dinner, don’t come to dinner, do whatever the hell you want. You’re a big boy, so fucking act like one.”
“I’m fucking trying!” he roars. “I’ve been trying my hardest for five years, doing the one and only thing Dominic asked of me.” He holds up a finger, then points it at me. “Stay away from you. I couldn’t even do that right.” His shoulders fall as his gaze drops to the floor.
“You’re right about one thing.”
He doesn’t lift his face, but he looks up through his lashes at me. “What?”
“You do deserve to lose me. You’ve treated me like shit, and even if it was some noble gesture to respect Dom’s wishes, it still felt shitty. He told me once that any man worthy of me wouldn’t be scared of him. He’s not always the best brother, but in this, I guess he was right.”
With that, I open the door and walk out, leaving it wide open behind me. Not so he’ll chase me but so he’ll have to be the one to close the door on whatever this could’ve been. If it could’ve been something at all.
Chapter 18
Griffin
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dom demands. Even though he’s skating by, staying in perpetual motion, behind the glare of the arena lights on his face shield, I can see true concern in his eyes.
Tonight’s game against the Torches is turning out to be an unexpected bloodbath. All thanks to yours truly. I’ve gone from defending the right side of the ice and keeping the puck out of Howe’s zone to seeking out other players to wail on. I need to slam into something, full body contact followed by a fistfight that’ll get all this pent-up anger out. Anything that’ll make it stop, even if it’s for only a second.
“Done with this shit.”
The puck drops, action resumes, and I scope out my next target. They’ll never know what hit them.
Unfortunately, I know exactly what hit me. Penelope Lee.
It’s been four days since she walked out of my apartment.
The first day, I waited for Dominic to come beat the shit out of me. When it didn’t happen, I slowly started to realize that Penny hadn’t told him anything. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse. Mostly, it’d just made me feel, and it was fucking awful. A black eye or bruised rib would’ve been infinitely easier to deal with than the growing sense of betrayal and guilt.
That night I texted her, needing to make sure she was okay, but she didn’t respond, leaving me on read. I even tried asking about the ring, because I haven’t forgotten about that problem, but she didn’t reply to that either.
Walking in for introductions tonight, I immediately began searching for her. For one too-brief and delusional moment, I held on to the ridiculously hopeful idea that she might chirp at me the way she did before the Vortex game. Alternatively, at the other end of the old-fashioned spectrum, I expected things to be the way they were before, with her doling out easy smiles for everyone else and spite-filled glares for me. Instead, she stayed deathly silent, not even letting her eyes land on me as I skated by. She looked past me as if I wasn’t even there. To be fair, I feel like a ghost of myself, a mere shell of a man, so I shouldn’t have been surprised by her non-reaction, but I was. Especially since my heart had been pounding in my chest with excitement just from laying eyes on her.
And since the game started, I’ve done my best to tune her out. But it’s damn near impossible when there’s so much that I want to say. Well, not that much. Mostly just that I’m sorry.
I do a quick check of the cheerleaders. Penny’s up on the stage, just to the home side of the red line, her brown hair flipping around as she dances. I want to watch her, to soak in every second of seeing her that I can get. But the play moves toward our end of the ice, drawing my attention back where it should be. The fury is instantaneous. I’m ready to plow into whomever I can, as hard as I can. I’ll fuck them up, and I don’t give a shit if I get fucked up in the process too.
I’m mad at myself for getting distracted, I’m mad at losing a moment of watching Penny, I’m mad at . . . everything and everyone. Most of all, myself.