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)
She has on the skirted uniform that’s always driven me crazy, paired with tall green-and-white-striped socks and hockey skates. I don’t know why seeing her in a tiny skirt and hockey skates does something to me, but it always has. Tonight it’s sending my blood flow to my dick, and my jock doesn’t exactly have space for an erection.
Dom is going after Campbell, one of the Torches’ forwards, who’s making a play toward the goal, and I defend the passing lane, making sure that nobody can slip behind for a dink-and-dunk-type deflection goal. I’m not worried, Dom’s got this guy handled. He’s a beast on the ice in his own right. And like she’s pulling them, my eyes tick to the right for the shortest of split seconds, directly to Penny. I see her intense gaze as she watches her brother battle, and then her brows climb high as her mouth rounds.
I jerk my eyes back to the action just in time to feel Jenkins, the other Torch forward, slam a shoulder into the solid mass of my chest, knocking me almost onto my ass as he skirts by me for exactly what I’m supposed to be preventing.
“Tired, old man?” he chirps. I’m only two years older than Jenkins and not tired at all. But I was . . . distracted. And that distraction let Jenkins make an unchallenged shot. Howe does his best, doing the splits to the ice, but the puck slides into the net, lighting the lamp behind the goal.
The Torches just scored, and it’s my fucking fault. The crowd boos loudly . . . both at the opposing team’s goal and at my whiff.
“What the fuck, man? Where were you?” Dom snaps, as if he didn’t let Campbell get that wrist pass off. But that doesn’t matter when I should’ve had the lane, intercepting the pass to clear it out to Brody or Jack Off.
I don’t answer, other than banging my stick to the ice. He’s right. I have to focus. My whole life might’ve changed this afternoon, but I can’t forget that I’m in the middle of a game. I won’t let my teammates down. Again.
Attention locked on the ice, I find the anger I need to play my best. It’s directed at myself, but it’ll do. Any anger gives me the edge I need.
By the end of the period, we’ve tied it up. As the ice crew comes out to clear the ice, we skate to the exit and make our way to the locker room, where Coach beelines directly for me.
Going almost nose to nose despite the three inches my skates give me, he demands, “Do I need to pull you?”
“No! I’m in.”
With his eyes locked on mine, I can see the questions lurking in his. Being late isn’t like me. Missing a play like that definitely isn’t. But he’s trusting me.
The second period starts, and I attack the ice, the Torches, and even the puck, sending it sailing back to the other end at one point. It’s an icing call, but the boom of a puck banging off the glass almost fifty yards away brings people to their feet.
The cheers from the crowd fade into nothing as my focus locks onto the puck and the players on the ice. The world doesn’t exist outside the rink. Me and my teammates. Rotate in, rotate out, defend our ice, and make plays on the Torches’ goal.
“Griffin!”
It’s not my name that breaks through the fog. It’s the sound of Penny’s voice shouting my name in a tone that has nothing to do with cheering me on. She sounds . . . scared, and that sends a jolt of terror through me.
I lift my head, and though she’s standing with the ice crew, I find her instantly. She points above her head at the crowd. I don’t know why at first, don’t see anything amiss. And then . . .
I see them. Miles’s goons are working their way down the aisle, getting closer to Penny. It doesn’t look like they’ve seen her yet since she’s blocked from view in the tunnel under the stands, but they’re looking for her. One even gestures toward the Hawkette stage with a jerk of his chin.
“Fuck.”
I need to get her out of here. Now.
But I’m in the middle of a game. I don’t know what to do.
Like fate heard my plea, Jenkins intercepts a deflected pass meant for Brody to try to break away for another go at our goal. Not this time. I bodycheck him hard and fast, completely unprompted, and he falls to his ass, spinning out on the slippery ice.
The crowd roars, surging to their feet to better see the unexpected fight, and two refs skate up, whistles blaring. But it’s not enough. I need off the ice.