Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 107687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Not that I’m telling him that.
twenty-seven
Dimitri
Fuck, my lungs are burning.
I dig into the ice, sweat running down my temples as I glide across the surface as fast as I can. I round the goal, using my stick for balance as I leverage my momentum to go faster. I round the other goal, reaching for a puck and moving it with my blade. I rush down the center of the ice as if I’m on a breakaway, sliding the puck back and forth, my eye on the prize. When I’m in shooting range, I crank my stick back, lean the way Posey wants me to, and I shoot as hard as I can. A crack rips through the arena as my stick shatters, but the puck goes in top shelf with ease.
Gone is my heavy shot. All that’s left is my heavy heart.
I throw what’s left of my stick down onto the ice and run straight into the boards, wanting the pain. It doesn’t hurt that bad since I’m fully equipped, but it does the job by knocking the air out of me. As I gasp for breath and my body burns, I know I should be done. I’ve been at it for a couple hours, just playing around and doing drills, but I still have no answer about Austen. I want to throw all caution to the wind and do what I want, but my fucking dad is right there in my head, reminding me what I’ve worked for all my life. I didn’t spend hours on the ice to fall in love. I didn’t go through endless injuries to be flat on my ass for her smile. I didn’t push myself to exhaustion at the rink to see her blush. I did it all to get to where I wanted to be. To be an Assassin. But I’m hers.
And that’s confusing as all hell.
I can’t help but think all my training and my strong work ethic set me up to be the man I am today. I have no problem working for what I want. Fighting for what I need. I’ve watched my dad love my mom with all his heart, practically worship her. When my grandma fell ill, my grandpa and dad did the same for her. Loved her through her pain, through the good days and bad. I watched it all, I helped, and I loved just as hard. I have never doubted myself until now, and it’s killing me. I have been with women galore, and no one has ever taken my breath away like Austen does. I mean, she’s the only one to swing on me with a hockey stick, but even so, those eyes get me.
Torture me.
Give me life.
I hate this. I hate feeling like I don’t know what I want—when I do. I know what I want to do and how to do it. I know what it will take to make a relationship work. I know what it will take to help her heal from the demons that haunt her, and I know how to make her feel like she is worshiped. Why can’t I do that without the doubts of others? Do I care what they think? Damn it.
I exhale heavily and push off the boards, retrieving the parts of my broken stick. I skate toward the bench and promptly run into the boards again when I see her standing there.
“Austen,” I gasp, my grip on my broken stick tightening. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk,” she says, her chin at that defiant little angle. Her eyes are pools of liquid gold. She wears an oversize tee with some tight nylon bike shorts. I don’t have to see her feet to know she’s wearing her high-top Nikes. Her hair is up in a high pony, and her lips are unusually glossy, or maybe she’s worked them with her nerves.
My mouth goes dry, and my heart kicks up in speed as our gazes stay locked. “I planned on swinging by. You didn’t have to make the trip.”
Her eyes narrow a bit. “I didn’t want to wait.”
I don’t say anything to that. I throw the broken stick in the trash by the bench, and then I toss my gloves down onto the bench. I take off my helmet, knowing my hair is sticking up all crazy but unable to care. I set it down with my gloves, and then I cross my arms over my chest to keep from touching her. I look down at her, and her gaze darkens. “I don’t know what to say, Austen.”
“Tell me what the hell your problem is,” she demands. “Because I’m struggling with the fact that we were consumed with each other one moment and then you’re gone the next.”
My jaw goes taut, but I won’t look away. “It’s complicated,” I say softly, and I can hear Flynn in my head. “I’m not sure what to do here.”