Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
“Nah, it’s all good,” Heath says.
I’m not convinced. Jonah’s angry gaze is glued to the action in front of us, but I can’t quite pinpoint where his anger stems from. Maybe he took a dirty hit and is pissed at the player who got away with it.
Dmitry’s line manages to hold Briar off. When McCarthy flops down beside me, I pound his shoulder with my glove. “Good hustle,” I bark.
“Thanks.” He blushes at the compliment, and I know he’s trying hard not to grin. I don’t throw out praise haphazardly, so my teammates know that when I praise them, I really mean it.
His obvious happiness brings a rush of guilt to my throat. Brooks got in my head the other night about “doing the right thing” with McCarthy. I’d already made the decision to tell him that I’m seeing Brenna, but I’m waiting until after the game. I didn’t want to take the chance that the news might distract him from the finals.
Coach changes up the lines again. Now it’s me and Brooks, and Coby’s been swapped out for Jonah, a right-winger who’s excellent at taking advantage of rebounds. There’s almost an immediate offsides call. At the whistle, I skate over and get in position.
The faceoff is a disaster from the word go. The bullshit starts, but this time it’s not courtesy of Weston. It’s from Jonah.
“Davenport,” he barks.
The Briar player spares him a glance before focusing on the ref.
“I’m talking to you, asshole. Stop pretending you can’t hear me.”
“Not pretending anything,” Davenport snaps back. “I just don’t give a shit about what you’re saying.”
The puck drops. I secure it, but Jonah is still distracted from the exchange and he misses the pass I flick his way. Davenport intercepts and takes off on a breakaway. We chase after him, but it’s Johansson who saves us from that potentially costly mistake. He stops the shot and passes the puck off to Brooks.
“Unacceptable,” I hiss at Jonah as I skate by. That kind of screw-up isn’t typical of Jonah Hemley. “Keep your head in the game.”
I don’t think he hears me. Or maybe he doesn’t care. When he and Davenport are tangled up against the boards during our next shift, Jonah starts up again. “Thursday night,” he’s growling. “Where were you?”
“Fuck. Off.” Davenport elbows Jonah hard and wins the battle for the puck.
I hit Davenport with a crosscheck and steal the puck, but once again Jonah is too caught up in whatever the hell this is. He doesn’t drive forward like he’s supposed to, and we’re offsides again. The whistle blows.
I don’t know what’s happening, and I don’t fucking like it.
The next faceoff is to the left of our net. As we line up, Jonah’s interrogation resumes. “Thursday night, asshole,” he spits out. “You were at the Brew Factory.”
“So what?” Davenport sounds annoyed.
“So you’re not denying it!”
“Why would I deny it? I was at the bar. Now shut the hell up.”
“The redhead you left with—you remember her?” Jonah demands.
My stomach drops, and I pray that the puck drops, too—now—because I’ve figured out where this is going, and it needs to be squashed. Now.
“Who? Violet? What do you care who I stick my dick in?”
“That was my girlfriend!”
As Jonah heaves himself forward, he knocks over the referee, who goes sprawling on the ice in a tangle of limbs.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!
“Hemley!” I thunder, but Jonah’s not listening.
He tackles Hunter Davenport, and his fists start flying. When Jonah’s gloves come off, anger sizzles up my spine, because dammit, this is cause for ejection. I try to haul him off our opponent, but he’s strong. He screams at Davenport for sleeping with Vi, while whistles blast all around us.
Davenport sounds genuinely confused. “She didn’t tell me she had a boyfriend! Jesus! Get off me!” He’s not even fighting back.
“I don’t believe you!” Jonah’s fist slams down. The whistles keep blowing.
Blood pours from the corner of Davenport’s mouth. He still has his gloves on, and he hasn’t thrown a single punch. If anyone gets kicked out of this game, it’ll be my guy and not Davenport.
I once against attempt to calm Jonah. Nate Rhodes, my rival captain, skates over and tries to give me a hand. Together, we succeed in yanking Jonah to his feet. He’s still beyond pissed. “He fucked my girlfriend!” Jonah shouts.
Another whistle blows. It’s chaos. Davenport manages to get up, but my teammate escapes the hold I have on him and lunges at the Briar player again, slamming him into the boards. Once again they fall to the ice.
Only this time, it’s accompanied by a loud grunt of pain.
I pull Jonah up again, but the agonized sound hadn’t come from him.
Davenport’s helmet comes off. He drops his gloves and cradles one wrist, pressing it against his chest. And he’s swearing up a blue streak, the pain in his eyes unmistakable. “You broke my wrist,” he snarls. “What the hell is wrong with you?”