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)
The concerned voices are in the minority. By far. It’s an ugly reminder that humans aren’t always at our kindest in group situations. The tribe can lift you up, but it can rip you apart just as easily.
Finally, the camera cuts away. Thank fuck.
But it’s far too late for Charlotte’s comfort, I’m sure.
It’s certainly too late for mine.
It feels like my entire body has gone cold from the inside out. Not hot. Not the explosive anger I felt when I saw that asshole hitting his wife.
Frozen. Tight. The kind of cold that kills.
I’m calmly, coldly, imagining what I’m going to do to that Jumbotron operator when I get him alone, when Blue’s voice cuts through the static in my head. “She’ll be okay. And if she’s hurt, someone will help her. Arena security is on the ball.”
Forcing my voice to say low—don’t want to give Coach a reason to think I’m about to fly off the handle—I mutter, “I hope so, but what the fuck was that guy thinking? Putting that on the Jumbotron? That was fucking cruel.”
Blue grunts, his eyes narrowing on the ice. “He wasn’t thinking. Most people aren’t, you know that. Thoughtless people are often cruel.”
It’s my turn to grunt.
In agreement.
Thoughtless people are often cruel. Which is why I need to encourage them to be more thoughtful.
With my fists.
“Just keep your head down and try to let it go,” Blue adds, as if reading my mind. “Charlotte wouldn’t want this to affect your game. That would only make her feel worse than she likely does already.”
He’s right. As usual.
I can’t murder the Jumbotron operator. I can’t even rough him up a little. I can write a scathing letter to human resources, and I fully intend to, but that doesn’t give me anything to do with the cold fury freezing my blood right now.
I’m still sub-zero as we climb over the boards, our line surging back onto the ice.
The puck is already in play, and I track it, moving on instinct.
But as much as I will myself to focus, a part of me is still up in the concourse with Charlotte. Is she getting help after whatever happened? Has some Good Samaritan at least offered her their Voodoo fan towel—the one they whip around in circles when they do the “Good Times Roll” chant—to dry off with? Are Elly and Makena rushing to the rescue with wet wipes and first aid kits, and all the other magical things women keep in their purses?
Why weren’t Elly and Makena with her in the concourse? What was she doing out there? The WAG box is fully stocked with food and drinks and has a private bathroom, so I…
I flinch, thoughts zooming back to the ice as the Outlaws’ center charges straight for me, a glower on his beefy face. He’s clearly looking for vengeance for that hip check.
Fine.
If he wants to keep playing rough, we can play rough. My inner chill is finally thawing into something more familiar, a hot rage I know exactly what to do with.
I line him up.
Wait for the perfect moment…
Then brace for impact and lean into the hit.
It’s legal. Clean. Shoulder to chest, but hard enough that he goes flying into the boards with a crash that echoes through the arena.
The whistle blows. The ref skates over, checking on the guy. But Beefy waves him off, getting back to his feet with another glare in my direction.
No penalty.
Good.
Because I’ve got more rage to burn…
By the time the first period ends, I’ve racked up three hits that make the highlight reel, blocked two shots, and nearly started a fight with their enforcer when he took exception to my attitude, which is admittedly poor.
As we head down the tunnel, Coach appears at my side, murmuring in his warlord voice, “Wrath is good, but don’t let it lead to ruin. Hot, but not too hot, son.”
I nod. “Got it. I’m good. I promise.”
“You look thirsty,” he says. “For blood.”
I exhale a ragged laugh. “Metaphorically, coach. Only metaphorically.”
He studies me for a beat. “Good. Keep it that way. And keep it legal.”
I nod again and head for my stall, ripping off my gloves, my helmet, my jersey, desperate to check on Charlotte. I grab my cell from the top shelf with shaking hands.
I’m mentally composing a text, promising to vanquish her enemies with all the resources at my disposal, when I see it…
There’s already a message waiting for me.
From her.
Charlotte: Hey, just wanted to let you know that I’m fine. I’m at Kilian’s, the sports bar down the street. I popped in to buy one of their T-shirts for the drive home and stayed to watch the game. You’re killing it, by the way, but you look ragey. If that has anything to do with me, I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry or upset or whatever on my account. I’m fine. And I really don’t want to be the reason you get in more trouble.