Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
On the ice, I get to just be.
Just play.
Thank God.
This is why I’ve always loved the game. No matter how confusing or complicated real life gets, when I’m on the ice, life is simple, win or lose. And that’s a beautiful thing.
Nearly as beautiful as the first play of our season two opener…
Winchester wins the faceoff, sending the puck back to me with a gratifying smack. I trap it clean against my blade, scanning the ice for openings, then fire it up to Jean-Louis on the wing. He takes it into the zone with his signature fancy footwork, while I book it into my next position, already reading the play three steps ahead.
The crowd roars, giving the team a lift as cheers echo through the arena.
This is the magic of a home game—the community, the tribe coming together to fight for a common goal. It’s something humans crave on a primitive level and don’t get nearly enough of in our isolated modern lives.
Knowing the Voodoo fans are up there screaming for us, funneling their hope and excitement down onto the ice, is a boost I don’t take for granted.
I like the thought of Charlotte up there, too. I hope she’s having a good time, so far, sipping one of those mango mimosas they serve in the WAG box and enjoying her night off. She’s been grinding hard on plans for the film festival gala this week. She deserves a fun night out with her friends.
Followed by a good time post-game with her fake boyfriend…
I haven’t asked if she’s up for doing something after our “meet-up for staged kissing” in the family area, but I hope she will be. A win always gets me too amped up to go home right away, and we’re going to win tonight.
I feel it in my bones…
The Outlaws’ center—smug, beefy dude, the kind who thinks his size makes him untouchable—tries to muscle past me along the boards. I hip-check him clean, legal, and he goes stumbling while the puck bounces free. I scoop it up and send it back to Blue, who fires it up the ice to Grammercy with precision that would make a sniper jealous.
And Grammercy?
Well, he puts the puck where it belongs—right in the Outlaws’ net.
“That’s it, men. That’s it!” Coach yells from the bench. “That’s how we vanquish the enemy! Give them no quarter!”
A laugh vibrates through my chest. Coach may be pissed at me at the moment, but he’s still the same Dwarf Warlord on the sidelines. He’s every bit as locked in as we are and always ready with The Lord-of-the-Rings-level hype that makes the fight for the win feel epic.
The whistle blows, and we change lines.
I skate to the bench, still grinning, adrenaline singing in my veins. The season opener is off to a solid fucking start, if I do say so myself. For the first time since that disciplinary meeting, I feel the weight around my neck ease a bit. Surely, management can see the magic this team makes on the ice. That’s not the kind of alchemy you want to fuck with by kicking a key player off the team for dubious reasons.
I drop onto the bench, reaching for my water bottle as Blue lets out a strangled sound beside me.
I look up sharply, already worried, even before I see the shock on his face.
Blue doesn’t do strangled sounds or shock. He rarely looks anything but calm or, occasionally, amused. But right now, his eyes are as wide as I’ve ever seen them. I follow his gaze to the Jumbotron, currently lit up with one of those “fan cam” moments they do between plays.
It’s Charlotte, I realize, a part of me excited to see her pretty face even as a savvier part instantly warns that this is bad.
Very, very bad.
She’s not in the WAG box with the other wives and girlfriends.
She’s out in the concourse and…soaking wet for some reason. Her hair is flat and dripping in the front, her eye makeup is smeared, and her blouse—some thin white fabric—is plastered to her skin.
Plastered, and completely see-through…
I fight the urge to stand up and shout for her to pull the shirt away from her chest. Or for the camera guy to cut away. She looks upset, for fuck’s sake! Like she’s been crying or hurt. This is clearly not the time for a “Party Foul” spot. Any idiot with a shred of empathy could see that.
But apparently, the camera guy isn’t blessed with a single fucking shred, and any reaction from me will only add fuel to the fire, a fact Blue confirms by resting a fist on my knee.
I nod, clenching my jaw as I force myself to stay seated.
The frame holds on Char for what feels like an eternity while the arena erupts in a groundswell of laughter, smug male muttering, and a softer undercurrent of concern.