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)
“Oh no,” I say, unravelling my scarf. “What did I miss?”
“One goal each in the first, one more from the Voodoo in the second. So, you’re here for the best part,” Rory says, his eyes bright. “Nix is cracking on like a madman, he is. Absolutely flying. He’s even faster than the games we watched online. I bet he’ll score now that you’re here watching for luck.”
“Hopefully, we won’t lose the signal.” Hamish Jr., the designated family tech support, frowns at the screen as it flickers. “I really don’t want to crawl up on the roof in this wind.”
“You’re not crawling anywhere in this wind,” Hamish Sr. agrees from behind the bar, breaking off mid-conversation with a patron to point a stern finger his son’s way. “If the Good Lord wants you to watch this game, the signal will hold. If not, you’ll keep your feet on the ground and live to watch—and play—hockey another day.”
“Yes, Da. Fine, Da,” Hamish Jr. says, rolling his eyes.
He and Rory are both part of a local ice hockey program. Rory plays for fun, but Hamish Jr. has dreams of joining the Scottish League, so keeping his legs in one piece for his last year playing at the high school level is pretty important.
“I think it’ll hold,” I say as I sink into the velvet-lined chair, the fire already warming my bones. “The wind is dying down a little, I think.”
While we’re waiting for the commercial break to end, Mary sets creamy, smoked fish soup down in front of all of us, along with a basket of fresh rolls, and we fall to eating like we haven’t eaten in days. Teenage boys and pregnant women—turns out our stomachs have a lot in common.
“Third period’s starting!” Rory announces a few minutes later, and the pub actually quiets. Even the old men glance up from their cards. The locals have adopted the New Orleans Voodoo as their unofficial second team, mostly because they’ve adopted me.
I have secret dreams of bringing Baylor here for a visit next summer. He can sign the boys’ jerseys, and everyone can meet Bean. She’ll be five or six months old by then. The thought is thrilling and scary, but not nearly as scary as the way my heart lurches as Blue’s face suddenly fills the screen.
He’s the first close-up after the wide shot of the ice.
It feels like the universe is calling my bluff. You’re so over your crush, you can’t believe you had one in the first place, huh? So over men in general, and Blue in particular, that you’re not interested in romance, is that it?
Well…we’ll see about that.
I gulp down a spoonful of soup, hoping it will soothe my electrified nervous system, but I’m suddenly finding it hard to swallow.
He looks different. So different that it’s jarring.
I can’t pinpoint exactly what’s changed about him in the few seconds his face is in close-up, but it’s significant enough that it’s all I can think about as the last period begins. He’s lost some weight, maybe? But it’s more than that. It’s something in his expression, in his eyes, a door that wasn’t open before.
A door that wasn’t there before.
I tell myself that’s a dumb explanation—eyes don’t have doors—but it’s the only thing that rings true. I try to focus on Baylor, but that glimpse of Blue ensures I only have eyes for him, my gaze tracking his broad shoulders as he moves around the ice, wondering what’s been going on with him.
What’s the reason for this change…whatever it is?
Around the two-minute mark, Nix makes a gorgeous shot, bringing the score to 3-1. The pub erupts in cheers, the boys chant “Voo-doo! Voo-doo!” and I laughingly accept their high fives. As Mary delivers my shepherd’s pie, play starts up again, and I vow to keep my focus on my brother and the fun of the evening.
I can worry about whatever’s up with Blue later.
The thought is barely through my head when it happens…
The Dallas center comes out of nowhere, a blindside hit that makes half the pub flinch and cry out. I don’t make a sound, but only because my throat is too tight to manage more than a strangled gasp as I watch the slow-motion replay of Blue hitting the boards, then the ice, his head snapping back with sickening force.
The cheering in the pub dies, leaving only the crackle of the fire and the tinny voices of the commentators, discussing how serious head injuries can be, as the medics skate out to remove a now unconscious Blue from the ice.
“That poor man,” Mary says, hovering near Hamish Jr’s chair with her hand on his shoulder.
She’s clearly thinking about how dangerous hockey is sometimes and how devastated she’d be if that were her boy out there on the ice.
She doesn’t turn to comfort me the way I know she would if she realized who Blue was to me. But she doesn’t. I’ve been intentionally vague about my baby’s father and equally vague about my ties to anyone on the Voodoo aside from Bay. As far as she knows, that giant man being lifted onto a stretcher is a stranger to me.