Vital Blindside (Swift Hat-Trick Trilogy #3) Read Online Hannah Cowan

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Swift Hat-Trick Trilogy Series by Hannah Cowan
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Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 85358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
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Adam White is many things, but a single dad was one that he never planned on becoming. He was twenty-three when the plan he had for his life crumbled at his feet. In the blink of an eye, he went from a flirtatious playboy just getting his new business up and off the ground, to a struggling father of a two-year-old boy that he never knew existed.
Still, he did it. Adam accomplished what he thought was impossible. And now, at the prime age of thirty-three, he doesn’t think that his life can get any better. His twelve-year-old son, Cooper, is his world, and his business, White Ice Training, is one of the most known hockey training facilities in Vancouver. But when he posts a job listing for a new hockey trainer, he gets a response that lights a flame inside of him that he never realized was burnt out. One that he refuses to go without again.
One terrible game was all it took for Scarlett Carter to lose everything. After a career-ending injury destroys her chances of ever playing professional hockey again, she finds herself lost in a mess of guilt-stricken “what-ifs” and broken dreams. Moving back home to Vancouver was never in the playbook, but neither was letting herself get tricked into taking a job working for a man who seems to want to stop at nothing to see her play the sport she loves again.
Scarlett wants to forget about the world that broke her, but the single dad refuses to let her move on. The more time she spends with Adam, the harder she’s finding it to resist him and the sly grins he seems to only give her. She can’t help but wonder why he cares so much about her. And more importantly, why can’t she bring herself to make him leave her alone.

FULL BOOK START HERE:

1

ADAM

The lumpy clouds above Vancouver, British Columbia, groan into the sky before opening up to drown us beneath a heavy pour of rain. It wets my hair, making it stick to my forehead as I continue my morning run.

I’m on my seventh mile, and even though the weather just gave me the middle finger, my house is only a couple of blocks away. I can’t exactly stop now, even if that means I’ll have to listen to my twelve-year-old son scold me for bringing wet clothes into the house as soon as I walk through the front door.

Cooper loves to poke at the bear, as long as that bear is me. I can’t help but take complete responsibility for that. He learned at a young age that the majority of the time, I’m all bark and no bite, which only makes him enjoy picking on me like a little shit even more.

Our two-story craftsman-style house pokes its head around the eyesore of a spruce tree planted dead smack in front of Mrs. Yollard’s house. It’s almost the size of her entire front yard and looks like it hasn’t been trimmed once in its lifetime. I’ve tried convincing the widow to have it cut down, even going as far as to offer her my assistance, but she’s shut me down each time.

My persistence has no limit, however. I’ll get her to agree one of these days.

I jog past the neighbouring yard and toward my house, noticing the open garage door. Cooper’s bike is leaning up against my workbench inside, his Marvel-sticker-decorated helmet dangling from the handlebars.

Neither my son nor dog are anywhere to be seen, but I can only assume they’re close by. My kid wouldn’t dare leave his precious bike out in the open without protection, and Easton doesn’t move from his best friend’s side for a second longer than necessary.

Slowing to a walk, I move up the driveway, patting the hood of my Mercedes when I pass it. I maneuver around the array of hockey gear and dog toys scattered on the concrete pad in the garage before shaking my hair free of rain and opening the door that leads to the mud room, stepping inside.

The mud room is as big of a mess as the garage, with large piles of laundry stacked in front of the washing machine and a collection of shoes everywhere but the designated rack. I’ve been telling myself I’ll get this room cleaned up eventually, but I may have put it off a bit too long.

“Coop?” I yell, slipping off my wet sneakers.

Taking a step out of the mud room, I wince when my socks make a squelching noise and water seeps to the floor. With rushed movements, I pull off my socks and add them to a pile of dirty clothes before collecting all of it in my arms and tossing everything in the washing machine. I’m throwing in a pod of detergent when I hear the familiar click-clack of nails on the floor.


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