Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“It. Is. On.”
I step inside the arena right foot first. Like I’ve always done.
The ice is smooth as glass, and the sound of blades cutting through the rink is my favorite song on the best playlist ever.
My pads are tight, and my helmet is snug. Gloves on, skates laced, stick in hand. Everything fits perfectly. Just the way I like it. I’m standing between the pipes, ready to face the barrage of shots from my friends, some of the best players in the league.
Now they’re my enemies, trying to score on me.
They’re circling the ice, weaving around each other, laughing, casually passing the puck before we start.
The crowd is loud. As in Aubrey, Trina, and Ivy. They’re standing by the boards, shouting, hooting, hollering.
And singing too? Is that “Livin’ on a Prayer?”
Yes, the ladies are belting out Bon Jovi. It’s adorable but I’d better tune it out.
Doesn’t matter that this pre-game warm-up is for kicks. I’m here to play hard. Sanchez watches from the stands as Ledger flies down the ice, passing deftly to Chase. They’re aiming for me, but that’s not gonna happen today.
Nope. Aubrey is here, and I want to show her what I can do.
Chase takes aim, lifting the stick high and sending it flying. But there’s nothing quite as satisfying as stopping shot after shot, including this one that’s hurtling toward me at Mach speed. I stretch out my glove, slapping that rocketing disc down.
Take that, puck.
Stefan comes at me next, racing with Hayes, passing that bad boy back and forth. I’m at the ready, crouching in the crease as Hayes tries to fool me with a backhand shot.
I catch it with my blocker.
From the side of the rink, Aubrey catcalls, “Ha! You can’t score on him. Go back to LA.”
Damn, she is a heckler, and hell, if that doesn’t fire me up some more.
Player after player come at me. It’s just like shooting practice at morning skate when the guys fire off shots from all directions, trying to score on me. Ryker slams a wrist shot that I knock down with my glove. Chase flies around the perimeter of the rink, trying to sneak up on me as he comes in fast and hot, but I kick out my leg and say see you later to that one.
Jaw tight, eyes lasered in on the action, I watch as Ledger flies down the ice. I can’t believe this season is going to be his last. He’s still as fearless and as terrifying as ever. When he smacks a slapshot at me, I stretch as far as I’ve ever stretched. I’ve got this, I swear I’ve got this, but it whizzes past, and lands right in the twine with a loud thwap.
“Ledger! You show him how to get in the hole!” Aubrey’s voice is loud and exuberant and downright filthy.
I fucking love that she cheers for both of us. No issues, no jealousy—she just switches back and forth.
As Ledger turns and skates the other way, there’s a pang in my chest. An ache. I wish it weren’t his last season. I wish he could play forever.
But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. What will he do, though, when he retires? Will he spend more time with Aubrey? Without me?
What the fuck? Where did that thought come from?
I don’t even know. This fling has an end date—two days from now. Not a year from now. Not at the end of the season. It ends in less than forty-eight hours when the plane lands back in San Francisco.
I blink away the sobering thoughts.
Here on the ice, there’s no room to get lost in my head. Scrimmage or not, there are always stakes—playing my best.
For the next forty-five minutes, I soak up every second, reveling in each save as if it were happening during game seven in the playoffs.
That is where I want to be at the end of the season.
When our session ends, Stefan rips off his helmet and skates over to me, tapping his stick to mine. “You could do better,” he deadpans.
Asshole. He knows I only let in three.
“And you’re slow as shit,” I reply.
Stefan adopts a serious expression. “It’s all the sex I’ve been having.”
I roll my eyes. “Then stop having so much.”
He scoffs. “Please. I’ll just work out more to balance it. Yeah, that’s it. This Sunday. The gym at my place. It’s on,” he says, pointing my way as Hayes glides over, joining us.
“I’ll be there.” I have to—training camp starts the next day.
“Me too,” Hayes puts in when he stops at the net, jerking up his helmet as well.
“No shit. You live there,” I say to Hayes, and damn, this feels good too, ribbing these guys, seeing my teammates.
“You can work out by your lonesome then,” Hayes says to me.