Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I glide across the ice on one furry leg, the other one sticking out behind me.
Laughter fills the arena as I continue my bear antics. When the clock ticks down toward the end of the period, Moses in the Ice Crew chases me with his broom.
But this bear is powerful. This bear is faster. I outrun him, heading toward the edge of the ice, then spin around and taunt him like we’re on a playground. You can’t catch me.
Then, like we rehearsed, I give him one last chance, and he tries to catch me. Oh hell, does he ever try. I fly down the ice, Moses at my blades, but when I reach the door to the tunnel, he slams into my back.
All the breath whooshes out of me, and I stumble, tripping over my own feet, and landing flat on the ice with a loud oof.
My head rings. My wrist barks. My knees scream. Everything aches all at once.
And the next thing I know, my husband scoops me up and carries me off the ice.
36
ON NOTICE
Hayes
The game can’t end soon enough. We can’t score fast enough. I have to get off the ice and check on Ivy after carrying her to the assistant athletic trainer who was waiting in the tunnel.
I plow through my line shifts during the final period, racing against the clock. If I can just pad this lead. If I can just get off the rink. I fly down the ice, shoulder to shoulder with Stefan, who spots an opening and passes to me.
Just try to stop me, goalie.
I blast that motherfucking puck to the back of the net without thinking twice.
My teammates cheer and the crowd erupts, but I barely feel the usual adrenaline rush. I just want this game to be over.
When I return to the bench with Stefan, he yanks up his helmet, then says, so only I can hear, “She’ll be okay.”
“But I hate that she’s hurt at all,” I mutter.
“Yeah, I know.” He pats my back.
How is he so fucking rational?
He taps the boards with his stick. “You can do this,” he says, calm and in control.
But I feel like a high-tension line. I’ve been such an asshole for the last few days. I’ve fucking ignored her, and I hate that.
And now she’s hurt, and she probably hates me. Why the fuck didn’t I say more when she texted? Why didn’t I text her?
You know why. You’re fucking scared.
I breathe out hard, then take this surge of irritation and pour it into the rest of the game, making sure we rack up a win.
When the buzzer sounds, I’m out of there without looking back.
The second my skates are off, I march into the athletic trainers’ room, barking, “Where’s my wife?” from the doorway.
Ivy sits on the bench in the corner, kicking her sneakered feet back and forth, drinking grape juice and icing her left wrist while talking to Briar, the yoga instructor who’s been contracted to work with the team. “And when she said you and me?” Ivy says with a sigh.
Briar, standing by the counter of medical supplies, clasps her chest like she’s swooning. “I was done. Just done. The entire box of tissues—gone,” Briar says.
“Same,” Ivy says in that tone women use when they’re bonding over something romantic said on TV or in a book.
What the hell? Where is the athletic trainer? The assistant trainer? I’m about ready to pull my hair out, and they’re discussing romantic quotes?
“What’s going on?” I demand, closing the distance to the dark-haired beauty I’ve missed terribly. “Are you okay?”
Ivy turns to me at last. “Oh. Hi,” she says, then waggles the bottle. “This is like candy. Have you had this before? Or is that against the diet rules?”
We’re talking about grape juice and diets? She fell and I carried her off the ice, terrified she was hurt badly, and we’re discussing drinks?
I’m still in my uniform shorts and pads. My neck is covered in sweat. My hair is a mess. And my heart is beating too fast.
“We won,” Ivy says brightly. “It was the polar bear. That got everyone going, right?”
Oh, shit.
I know this Ivy.
This is Ivy’s wall. Like in the SUV in Vegas after the wedding when she was too cheery, too upbeat, too happy. She does this when she’s hiding something. Afraid of something. And I’m pretty sure I know what she’s afraid of now.
Me.
Or more specifically, how frosty I’ve been the last few days.
My bad behavior wallops me. I shut down. I ignored. I avoided. I was as cold as my ex-girlfriend had accused.
I don’t feel cold at all for this woman before me. I feel so much for Ivy it terrifies me. But I face down grown men on the ice who want to body check me, so I can do this. I cup Ivy’s cheeks and meet her deep blue eyes, full of the brightness that masks her hurt. “I’m sorry,” I say, full of contrition. I hope she hears all of it. “I’m so sorry.”