Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
His return text caused both angst and intrigue. Screwing around at the Igloo tomorrow with the guys. Meet me there at eleven. Bring your gear if you want to play.
Christ, my fingers itched to text back and tell him that wasn’t good for me. I didn’t want to go anywhere near an ice rink.
Screwing around with the guys meant they were playing hockey. Probably a small pickup game, and I had no idea who “the guys” were, only that it could be any number of teammates I’d managed to piss off and let down throughout the last part of the season.
Yet here I am.
Sitting outside the complex.
With my gear in the back seat.
It’s just a pickup game, I tell myself. Nothing but exercise. It doesn’t mean anything.
Two days ago, I would’ve told myself I don’t deserve the joy of gliding along the ice. I most certainly don’t deserve to share time with friends—or rather, men who could become my friends if I’d let them. I’m not worthy of it.
But Tillie’s voice keeps echoing in my head. You have to forgive yourself. You need to claim your life again.
If I dared step a skate onto that ice, it means I’m willing to try to let go of my guilt. It means I am willing to accept my own personal absolution. I might be ready to do that.
But can I reclaim my old life? Have I burned the tenuous bridges that were in place when, time and time again, I was an ass to everyone on the team?
I don’t know, and I’m not going to hope for such a thing. But right now… at this moment… I am going to play a bit of hockey, just to see how it feels.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my gear and head into the facility. I steel myself to be recognized. This is a popular place, given they have three different rinks.
I pull open the glass door, moving past the skate rental booth, and veer right to Rink C where Stone said they’d be. I don’t look around, but I feel eyes on me. I even hear my name murmured as I pass people.
It’s not easy, but I ignore it all. I’m afraid if I make eye contact, fans will want to connect in a friendly way or some asshole is going to give me a piece of their mind about the suspension.
Not that it wouldn’t be deserved.
As the ice comes into view, I see my teammates skating around. They’re already engaged in a game of three-on-three using only half the rink and without a goalie in net. Just a lot of skating, trick passes through the legs and such. General goofing off.
There’s nothing but laughter that hits my ears as I approach, and surprisingly, it doesn’t grate.
Boone sees me first—the dude who took my place on the first line during my suspensions. He pulls to a stop with a short spray of ice and a huge smile breaks out on his face. “Coen’s here,” he announces, and the game stops.
It’s like a blinding spotlight shining on me as I take in the men.
Gage, Stone, Boone, Camden, Hendrix, and Kirill.
Camden and Hendrix were on the team with me before the crash. Both weren’t on the plane due to injuries. We’ve been dubbed the Lucky Three. We survived the crash by not being on the doomed plane.
And they have survived. I’m sure they’ve grappled with the same survivor’s guilt I have, but they’ve worked through it. They’ve embraced the new team and forged bonds with their new linemates. They’ve reveled in being back on the ice and easily slipped back into the spirit of competition.
They did what I couldn’t do, and there was a period I resented them for it.
Of course, they didn’t betray a friend the way I did by fucking around with his girlfriend.
For a moment, I panic. This was a bad idea, and my gear bag suddenly weighs a thousand pounds. My hands sweat and the grip on my stick is too tight.
It’s Gage who doesn’t give me the chance to flee. He skates up to the boards, pulling a glove off and shoving it under his arm to hold. Reaching his hand out, he leans my way for a shake. “Dude… it is great to see you.”
I have no choice but to move forward and accept the greeting. Which is then followed by all the other guys who skate to me for fist bumps or back slaps.
Everyone seems genuinely happy I’m here, but not in a way that makes me believe they have unrealistic expectations.
Throwing a thumb over my shoulder, I say to Stone, “I got your brother’s stuff in my truck.”
Lame. Of course, he knows that.
“Cool,” he replies. “I’ll get it later. Why don’t you suit up and join us? We’re just fucking around.”