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)
Wait and want and slowly go a little coo-coo with both.
I’ve tried to take the edge off with longer morning runs, more intense sessions in the weight room, and skating like the devil himself is after me during this scrimmage.
So far, it’s not working.
But you know what they say, if at first you don’t purge your demons…
Dean and Grammercy come at our defensive line again, two-on-two. Dean’s on fire today, himself. As the oldest members of the team, we both have something to prove. But I sense his intensity isn’t about showing he’s “still got it” any more than mine is. We’re just two grown men with a lot on our shoulders, grateful for the chance to work through some shit on the ice, where—win or lose—we all leave the arena with our hearts in one piece.
The pair of them cross at the top of the zone. Nix takes Grammercy, but I stay with Dean. I keep my hips square, waiting for him to commit, tracking the tilt of his blade. He has speed, and he uses it, cutting hard to the inside, trying to find the crack in my armor.
I stay with him. Stick in the lane, waiting for a mistake that doesn’t come.
He shoots instead of passing—a quick-release wrist shot, high glove side. It’s the kind of masterpiece you spend ten thousand hours perfecting, and he nails the execution.
The puck beats our backup clean.
The thud of it hitting the net echoes through the quiet arena. It’s the sound of something slipping past me despite my best efforts. Despite the focus. Despite reading the play exactly the way I’m supposed to.
Some things get through anyway.
I’m hoping that’s not a lesson that follows me home…
After practice, the locker room smells like the usual suspects—sweat, vulcanized rubber, and Capo’s signature colognes.
Our enterprising Italian launched his own fragrance and body care line this past summer. On the first day of camp in September, he gifted every member of the team with deluxe gift bags, featuring deodorant, bodywash, and cologne in all three scents, and encouraged us to find the one that “speaks to your soul.”
Despite some teasing from our younger teammates about preferring cologne that speaks to a woman’s soul—specifically the part that makes her want to come home with a guy after rubbing up against him in the club—we did. Now, the locker room is reliably filled with the scent of virgin cedar forests, heather-dusted highlands, and exotic spices I can’t name.
It’s nice.
And almost completely covers the funk of Parker’s lucky game day socks, festering on the top shelf of his stall, which I’m pretty sure he hasn’t washed since early last season.
I drop onto the bench, the plastic cold against my hamstrings as I lean forward to unlace. My hip flexors ache with a deep, pulsing heat.
I like it.
The physical discomfort is clarifying, a welcome distraction from…other kinds of discomfort.
A beat later, Nix drops onto the bench beside me, laces snapping as he jerks them loose. “You were locked in out there, man. Especially for a guy sleeping on the world’s worst air mattress.” He shoots me a sideways glance, the kind that says he’s been waiting to stage an intervention. “The offer still stands to grab the king-sized one from my storage unit, okay? Seriously. It’s no trouble.”
“The king wouldn’t fit in the space,” I say. “And I’m fine.”
“There’s no way you’re fine,” he insists. “That mattress wasn’t made for someone your size, Blue. And Bea won’t mind if you move some things around in the music room so you’re more comfortable. You deserve to be comfortable.”
Do I?
And would Nix still think I deserved to be comfortable if he knew…
When he knows?
The reminder that Nix is going to find out that I’m the father of Bea’s baby—probably pretty damned soon—makes me stay hunched forward, even when my laces are fully undone. I suspect he’s going to wish something far worse upon me than a leaky air mattress. Besides, the discomfort serves a purpose. Most nights, it keeps me from sleeping deeply enough to dream.
Because when I dream, I only dream of Beatrice.
And my dreams aren’t G-rated, not even a little bit.
“I appreciate it, but I like things the way they are,” I say, averting my eyes as I step out of my skates.
I don’t like things the way they are, not really. But they are the way they are, and there’s no changing them until Beatrice decides she’s ready for them to change.
“So, you’re a masochist,” Nix jokes. “Is that it?”
I grunt.
Maybe I am. I can’t say for sure at this point.
I grab my towel and head for the showers, leaving Nix chuckling behind me.
The water is already scalding. Confirming at least a slight masochistic streak, I nudge it hotter and stand under it until my skin stings. The heat is good for my aching muscles, and the more time I spend in the shower, the better the chances Nix will be gone by the time I get back to my stall.