Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
I don’t even really know how to feel about it. My father, Jim, and I haven’t always had a good relationship. Growing up, I found him to be cold and distant, a hard man to know. He’s an electrician and, in my childhood, worked long, hard hours to provide for his family. He would come home at night and expect my stay-at-home mom to have dinner on the table.
After dinner, he’d retire to his recliner and watch TV for the rest of the night, and I had to be quiet and not disturb him. It was my mom who helped me with homework, made sure I was appropriately bathed and put to bed at night. She’s the one who woke me up in the morning, fed me, and waited with me at the bus stop.
Only after I showed some natural talent for hockey did my dad’s interest in me perk a bit. I mean...he came to some of my games when his work schedule allowed, and while he was never one to boisterously cheer me on, I could tell he was proud. It was the look on his face.
Still, it was Mom who dutifully brought me to every game and nursed my sprains and injuries. When I doubted myself, she always bolstered me back up. She’s the one who encouraged me to keep pushing day in and day out to develop my talent.
And she’s the one who held back her tears so I wouldn’t feel guilty when I left to live with my billet family in Green Bay to play Junior A hockey at the age of sixteen. She knew it was my best chance to move forward in my path to play professional hockey, even if it meant giving up the last two years of my childhood and being with her full-time.
It’s true... I grew a little closer to my dad after I entered the professional hockey league, but that had more to do with the fact that I was an adult, and thus we had more things in common. While the bond with my mother has always been exceptionally tight and emotional, my relationship with Dad has been more like that of the proud uncle who lives down the street. We’ve never had the in-depth discussions one might imagine occur between father and son, and he’s never been the one I turned to for guidance and support.
And yet, when he called me to tell me he was diagnosed with cancer, it stunned me that it was actually him delivering the news. Based on our history, I would have considered it normal for him to have my mom pass on the bad news, but I heard something in his voice then that I’d never heard before.
Thinking about it now, it’s hard to describe, but if I have to boil it down to one word, it might be something close to regret.
Not that he’s dying, but perhaps that we missed out on far too many things together.
Whatever it was I heard in that conversation, it was enough for me to ask for a trade to the Cold Fury. Although I don’t have a deep relationship with my father, it was enough for me to walk away from an assured championship, and possibly set my entire career back.
The baggage carousel alarm starts to blare, and then the gears kick in, starting the platform in its three-hundred-and-sixty-degree journey to deliver luggage. It jolts me out of my thoughts, and my gaze moves to the little ramp that leads up from the bowels of the airport, where some worker will be carelessly chucking our bags.
The various pieces start their climb upward and dump unceremoniously out onto the metal platform that will eventually deliver the items.
I move closer to the carousel, finding an open spot between passengers. Flying first class has its perks, one of which is that my bag has a priority tag. It comes out third in line, and I nab it easily.
My mom is supposed to pick me up and is probably waiting out by the curb. I set the heavy suitcase on its wheels, pull the telescoping handle up, and turn toward the door, immediately knocking into someone because I’m not watching where I’m going.
“Shit,” I mutter, my hand automatically extending to steady the person. “I’m so sorry.”
My gaze travels up past jeans-clad legs, a pretty spring sweater in butter yellow, gorgeous breasts, and a slender neck.
Then my eyes lock on the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.
One I’ve looked at least a million times throughout my life and in my dreams. I still have found none to rival it. My entire body jolts with an electric shock as I stare into the eyes of my ex-girlfriend, Calliope Ramirez.
“Hey,” I say in mild surprise, both pleased and feeling terribly awkward at seeing her here. I look around for her family or even some friends she might be on a trip with. When my gaze comes back to her, I ask, “Small world, running into you at the airport.”