Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
And if she is watching…
Well, maybe she’ll be able to see that the fire isn’t there. That the only fire burning inside me now is the one that burns for her.
Nix circles past, tapping his stick against my shin guards. “You good?”
“Yeah. Just opener nerves.” It’s a half-truth. I’m actually nervous about not being nervous, but that’s the kind of thing a good captain keeps to himself.
Grammercy skates backward past us, muttering beneath his breath as he stares at the other team in their blinding new gear. “Maybe it’s the dad in me, but I feel like I’m about to take on a flock of Big Birds. Anyone else?”
“Yep. Same,” Dean says, laughing as he joins us. “Almost feel sorry for the poor bastards.”
“The Dallas uniform division did them dirty,” Nix agrees.
“So dirty.” Grammercy shrugs, grinning as he adds, “But we’ll certainly be able to see them coming. No Big Birds getting a clear shot at our net tonight.”
Murmured ascents rumble through the others as we join the line-up for final pre-game drills. We’re hungry this year. Last season’s playoff exit left a bitter taste in our collective mouths. We’re determined to make it all the way this time.
I’m determined, too. I’m just not on fire. I’m cool, calm, and even when the national anthem finishes and the puck drops, it still feels like training camp practice.
Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to affect my game. The first period is a chess match, both teams testing defenses and probing for weaknesses. Dallas is fast. Their top line flies up the ice in a blur of blinding yellow, forcing us to backpedal, but our defensive structure holds strong. Our line is in peak condition, and after two seasons, Nix and I communicate without words, seamlessly covering each other’s gaps as we box out their forwards.
Seven minutes in, their center breaks through the neutral zone with speed. I pivot, skating backward, keeping my body between their fastest bird and the net. He tries to deke inside, but I stay with him, forcing him wide. He shoots anyway, but the angle is shit, and Capo gloves it easily.
Nix gathers the rebound, a blur of movement as he feeds it to Jean-Louis on the wing, and just like that, the machine is in motion.
We transition to offense, but I’m still skating on autopilot.
By the third period, we’re up 2-1. On paper, I’m having a perfect night—every pass tape-to-tape, every check delivered with cool efficiency. But I’m not even close to fully present. Half of me is here, the other half is wondering if Beatrice is watching and if so, what she’s thinking, feeling.
I wonder if she misses her brother enough to come home for a visit soon. A visit would be good enough. All I need is a day, an hour, just a few minutes of her undivided attention to prove to her that I won’t fuck up the way I did before.
Two minutes left.
Dallas pulls their goalie, the extra attacker creating a swarm in our zone.
I settle into my stance, knees bent, eyes scanning the yellow blur. I’m looking for the open man, searching for the threat. Instead, I catch sight of long brown hair in a loose braid halfway up the bleachers in section 108…
My heart slams against my ribs, my mouth filling with acid as adrenaline dumps into my bloodstream.
I almost instantly realize that the woman isn’t Bea—she’s too tall, too young—but it’s too late. My focus is already so compromised that I have no business being on the ice.
Apparently, the Dallas center agrees.
“Blue! Watch your back!” Nix shouts, but it’s too late.
The hit comes a split second later, two hundred pounds of Dallas muscle catching me from the right before I can turn my head, let alone anything else. It’s dirty as hell, but there’s no time to shout about that, either. My skates lose their bite on the ice, and suddenly I’m weightless, hurtling through the air, all my mass and muscle reduced to physics and momentum.
I hit the boards shoulder-first with a sickening thwack that vibrates through my teeth. My skates go up as my head goes back, the ice rushing up to meet me with an unforgiving crunch. My helmet does its job, but the brain inside is still just soft tissue, vulnerable to impact.
The world goes blinding, sterile white, the arena lights expanding until they swallow the rafters. The roar of the crowd turns into a high, thin whistle, like a teakettle left on in an empty house, screaming for someone to come back and put it to use.
I so desperately wanted to be put to use…
As I lie flat on my back, my lungs locked in my chest, regret dances through my head. If only I’d had the right words when it mattered. If only I’d had my shit straight months ago, when the woman of my dreams gave me the one shot, I will forever regret missing.