Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed theatrically. “Thank you. Um…it’s really great to meet you. I was required at birth to root for the Bruins, but I’ve secretly been a Slammers fan for years.”
I shoved my hand into my pocket. “Thanks. I appreciate that. What position do you play?”
“Right wing, sometimes center.”
Ronnie clapped Gavin’s shoulder proudly. “He’s a natural. Best the Eagles have had in years.”
“Since you?” I teased.
“Pretty much,” Ronnie countered, rocking on his heels.
Gavin cocked his head thoughtfully. “Huh. I thought Nolan led the old-timer best record by a forward in the league.”
Ronnie gave a mock scowl. “Didn’t you have somewhere to go?”
“I’m going, I’m going.” Gavin handed over the whiteboard, grabbed his bag from the bench, and waved. “See ya tomorrow, Coach.”
I waited for him to leave, my gaze fixed on the ice, weaving patterns and plays in my head in an effort to stay present. It would be far too easy to lose myself here.
“Nice kid,” I commented, tilting my chin as I snatched the board from Ronnie’s grasp.
“He’s the same age you were when you left for college.”
I didn’t have much to say to that, so I punched his biceps lightly and grinned. “How are ya, man?”
To my relief, he grinned, seeming more like himself—cool and composed, not a trace of rogue emotion.
“I’m great.”
We exchanged once-overs, sizing each other up after a few years of absence. Ronnie had lost his hair and filled out around the middle since the last time I saw him. I could tell he’d look a lot like his old man in a few years…unlike Nolan, who was as fit and good-looking now as he was when—
Whoa. What the actual fuck?
I pushed weird thoughts aside and focused on Ronnie.
“It’s been a while.”
“Seven years,” he replied.
Fuck, that was awful. I’d come home for Mr. Moore’s funeral and stayed a total of three hours before hopping a private jet to New York for a game against Buffalo. That whole day was a horrible blur of tears and the weight of unbearable sadness. I remembered sitting on the tarmac in Buffalo, praying to a god I wasn’t sure I believed in anymore. I wasn’t religious. I didn’t have stock prayers to lean on, so I’d made shit up in my head. Please let them be okay. Please let me be okay. Help us all make him proud.
I’d played one of the best games of my life that night. I’d scored twice and defended the net like a beast, shoving anyone who dared cross me into the boards, hard enough to snap bones.
Don’t quote me, but I vaguely recalled being accused of breaking Volker’s nose and cracking Marquette’s collarbone. I believed it. First of all, there was blood everywhere and second, I’d been in pain and I’d wanted to cause pain.
I’d roared like a wild beast on center ice afterward, pounding my chest, tears streaming down my face, my stick raised to the heavens like an offering. The press had said I was possessed, the Sabres had said I was dangerous, and their fans had insisted I was mentally unhinged. I’d been all of the above, but hey, it was hockey.
My teammates had slapped high fives with me, then given me a wide berth. They had no idea what had gotten into me, and they were probably glad I was on their side. No one had ever asked if I was okay.
Except Nolan.
He was pissed at me for reasons we didn’t talk about, but he’d still texted the next day to check up on me. Christ, and he was the one who’d just buried his father, yet he’d known I’d felt the loss almost as hard as Ronnie and he did.
I still felt it.
The point was, it was the sort of thing I’d expect Ronnie to do. Of the Moore brothers, Ronnie had a reputation for wearing his heart on his sleeve. He was selfless and kind…sometimes to a fault. While Nolan was matter-of-fact and stoic, and—
Okay, I did not need to be thinking about Nolan right now. I cleared my throat and swept my hand out to encompass the rink.
“I haven’t seen this place in longer than seven years.”
Ronnie smiled. “It’s a little tired, but there’s been this wild renaissance in the area ever since that mystery writer moved to Fallbrook. Clive says there are more tourists staying at the Black Horse Inn than ever, and since Nolan hired a serious chef at the diner, reservations are required. If you don’t book days in advance, you’re out of luck.”
My eyes almost bugged out of my skull. “Are you kidding?”
“I’m very serious. And get this…last winter, our junior team went to the semis for the first time since Dad coached. I had more kids sign up than I thought lived here. Some were driving from two towns away to play hockey.”