Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 50840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
"Do I need to pull you from the net?"
"No, sir. I've got it," I say. "It was just a rough start."
"If you don't have it together soon, I'm pulling you out," he warns me before whipping his head in Diego's direction. "Get your head on straight in case Moreno has to come out, Tapia. And do not piss me off, kid."
"On it, Coach," Diego says somberly.
Coach shoots another quelling look in my direction before stomping away to talk to Archer. He pauses in front of Jordan briefly, shooting him a death glare. He doesn't say anything, though. He already reamed his ass on the bench once he got out of the penalty box for the third time.
I'm not sure what the fuck is up with Jordan tonight, but his mood is worse than usual. Actually, it's been worse than usual all day.
"Fuck," I mutter, bouncing my head against the wall behind me.
"You good?" Jordan asks, glancing over at me.
"Fucking fabulous."
"Right," he snorts. "You hit your head against that wall any fucking harder, Coach isn't going to have to pull you out. You're going to knock your own dumbass out."
"Maybe that's the plan."
"Whatever. Have a fucking ball."
I narrow my eyes on him. "What's up with you?"
"Not a damn thing. What's up with you?"
"Not a damn thing," I say.
"Well, at least we're on the same fucking page."
I snort, shaking my head before taking a big drink of water.
"You pissed about your girl being all over the news?"
I shoot him a dark glare.
"Figured," he grunts. "Want some advice?"
"Fuck no."
"Too bad. I'm in an advice-giving mood."
"Since fucking when?" I eye him sideways. The only advice Jordan ever gives is fuck and off, usually when someone is pissing him off. And that's all the warning they get before their faces become intimately acquainted with his fists. It's why he spends so much damn time in the penalty box.
"Since now." He purses his lips, staring at me for a moment. "Don't be another asshole in her life who lets her down because you're feeling sorry for yourself over whatever bullshit you're telling yourself over there. You dragged her into this. She's counting on you to lead her through it. Get your head out of your ass and lead."
"I'm not feeling sorry for myself," I growl.
"Really? Because that puck went right between your legs. Literally right between them." He extends his arms and brings them down between his legs, whistling. "And you were off in another world, thinking deep thoughts about the goddamn lights."
"I was thinking about you, actually, you prick. You know how much I love that pretty face of yours."
"Take my advice or leave it," he says, flipping me off. "Doesn't matter to me either way. You'll be the one who regrets it if you leave it, though."
I stare at him for a long minute, shaking my head. "I liked you better when you sat over there and didn't say anything."
His lips curve into a smirk. "Maybe I'm a changing man."
"Yeah, that's bullshit. You've been in a pissy mood all night, and that's saying something because you're always a cranky motherfucker. What the fuck is going on with you? Since you're all up in my goddamn business, I'm stepping into yours."
"Nothing."
"Right. You're just extra fucking cranky and weird for no reason." I roll my eyes. "That makes total sense."
"The past is a bitch," he finally mutters.
"Oh. Oh, shit." My eyes wide, realization dawning like a hammer blow. "We're playing the Bucks."
He jerks his chin in a nod.
"I'm an asshole."
"You expecting me to disagree or something?"
"Fuck." I scrub a hand down my face. No wonder he's so goddamn moody. Jordan used to play for them before he and Jamison Peters, their captain, came to blows in the middle of a game. It was nasty. He knocked Jamison out, and team management gave him the boot. It almost cost him his career. He's fucking hated Peters since. "I'm sorry, man. You good?"
"I'm fine," he growls. "Why does everyone always ask me that shit?"
"Uh…you mean aside from the obvious?"
Jordan scowls at me.
"Mostly because people actually give a shit," I say quietly. "Peters is a dick, but we like you. We ask because we're ten toes down, standing behind you. If you decide you need to hit the prick again, we'll throw elbows and cause a scene. They can't boot us all."
"He's right," Archer says, picking his way across to us.
Jordan and I both look at him in surprise. Archer can be aggressive as hell on the ice, but he rarely starts fights. He damn sure knows how to finish them, though.
"We ask because we care," he murmurs to Jordan. "And we ask because we want to know if we're playing nice or starting a riot. Either way, we've got your back, fucker. Get your shit on. It's time to hit the ice."