Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Jesus, you’re a bitch. I don’t—”
I disconnect the call. I don’t have to listen to his abuse anymore. He immediately dials back, the ringtone triggering my anxiety. If I were to answer it, he’d scream at me. This will be followed by short bursts of foul texts where I’ll be called every name in the book. Then he’ll leave a voicemail or two bemoaning his lot in life and how I never gave him a fair chance. By tomorrow, I’ll get an apology in the form of a call or a text and the cycle starts all over again.
But the greatest thing about being divorced from that man is that I can now choose not to listen to it. I don’t have to go home to an environment where I walk on eggshells all the time and wait for the other shoe to drop. It was the same way I felt growing up, never knowing what might set my dad off, although usually with him, alcohol was involved. With Scott, he’s just a straight-up asshole.
“You’re a piece of work,” I mutter under my breath, berating myself for at least the millionth time for marrying a man so similar to my abusive father.
But that pattern has been broken for good, a symbolic event when those divorce papers were finalized. Now I’m free of a bad marriage, a dissatisfying relationship, and I’m never going back to that place again.
I open the door and slide in. Brittany grips my hand, her look silently asking if everything is okay. She knows what I went through with Scott. She went through the same with our father, and then with Izzy’s father.
The Montreaux women sure know how to pick ’em.
CHAPTER 3
King
We line up for the face-off, my heart pounding in my chest. There are only twenty seconds left in the game against the Carolina Cold Fury, and the score is tied 2–2. It’s been a hard-fought battle, as expected. Stone is taking the face-off and we need to win this. On the line with him are Penn, Boone, Bain and me. Drake is ready in goal, but we’re hoping he remains uninvolved.
As I position myself in the circle, I glance at the player next to me, my old teammate, Rick Kourakis from the Houston Jam, who was traded to the Cold Fury this year. We’ve always had a friendly rivalry, and I can’t resist the opportunity to mess with him a little.
“Nice new colors and logo,” I say, smirking. “Blue, black and white. You guys look so pretty!”
“Fuck off, King,” he growls, giving me a sharp nudge.
I nudge back, jockeying for position. “What’s with the tornado with the growling face and sharp fangs? Looks like something out of a bad comic book.”
He shoots me a glare, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitch, trying not to laugh. “Jealous, King? At least we look fierce.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Fierce? More like a bad Halloween costume. Focus on the game, buddy.”
The referee drops the puck, and Stone reacts with lightning speed, winning the face-off cleanly. He sends it back to Boone, who immediately passes it to Bain. The Cold Fury defense closes in, but Bain maneuvers skillfully, skating past them with ease.
I tap my stick sharply on the ice and he backhands a pass to me. I take a quick snap shot, aiming for the top corner, but Fournier knocks it away with his glove. The puck rebounds, bouncing toward Penn.
There’s a reason he’s the best in the league. Penn grabs the puck, dodging a Cold Fury defenseman. He glances up, sees an opening, and with a flick of his wrist, he sends a short chip shot over Fournier’s shoulder. The puck sails into the net and the red light blazes, signaling our goal.
The arena erupts in a cacophony of cheers and my line swarms together, Drake racing out of goal to slam into us for a group hug.
The locker room buzzes with energy and the sweet smell of victory. I step out of the sleek teakwood shower, the warm water still fresh on my skin, and grab a towel from the nearby rack. The mosaic floor tiles shimmer with the Titans logo, and I can’t help but feel a surge of pride. A gratitude to be on this championship-bound team. I can just feel that we’re going to do it this year.
I walk over the thick, dark gray carpeting with its purple border and the massive Titans logo embroidered in the center. It’s pristine, almost like the ice we just dominated. I head to my cubby, stained a deep charcoal gray and spacious enough to house all my gear. The chrome lettering at the top—backlit in a purple glow—spells out KINGSTON, and there’s no doubt that I feel like I truly belong here.
“You killed it out there,” Rafferty says, wrapping a towel around his waist as he strides over from the showers. His wet hair drips onto the floor, but the high-end carpet absorbs it without a trace.