Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Wesley: We need to get you in the stands at the next game.
Ideally in my jersey. But I don’t add that.
Josie: I’ll wear my good luck scarf.
A burst of hot adrenaline rushes through my veins. I don’t even need to ask why she’s calling it her good luck scarf. I’m betting it’s because she wore it the night she met me. By the time we’re crossing the tarmac to the team jet a little later, the thrill of victory hasn’t totally worn off—nor has the buzz from Josie’s texts.
“Did you get a feeling that Karlsson has bad blood with Bryant?” Max drawls as we head down the aisle, claiming our usual seats.
Asher shakes his head sympathetically as I shoulder my way into his row, across from Max.
“Did you date his mom?” he asks. “Steal his girlfriend? Put Whiny Bastard as the name on the back of his jersey one night, and he didn’t notice?”
I smile evilly. “Should have done that one,” I say, then I scratch my jaw as I settle into the seat. I really can’t let the assholes of the world get me down. “But I did beat him at poker every single time. Dude has zero strategy.”
“And you, man—you’re all fucking strategy,” Max says with a proud nod.
“You are and we appreciate it,” Asher adds, just as earnest.
It’s a rare moment among these guys when we aren’t giving each other hell. When we’re abundantly honest, and I’ll take that, along with the bruises from all the hits I took tonight.
“Thanks, man,” I say, to the both of them.
“Speaking of, we should play,” Max says, then takes out a deck from his bag and shuffles. Before Texas Hold’em starts, though, my phone pings with a message.
I’m itchy to check it. What if it’s Josie again? My hand moves to my pocket, but I stop myself. I should just play cards. It’s risky to open a message now. Then again, my texts don’t automatically show pics. Max isn’t done dealing…
Screw it. I’m too amped up on the dizzying possibility of a note from her, so I click on my texts lightning fast, but groan in disappointment.
“It’s my…” I cut myself off before I say Dad to my friends, saying agent instead. He reps Alexei, too, and plenty of other pro hockey players. Best if I try to think of him as my agent.
“Go ahead,” Max says, getting it.
I shake my head. “I’ll catch him in between hands.”
But I fold easily—maybe I’m distracted by what I know is coming from him. Criticism. When they’re upping the ante on the hand, I return to his text, and yup, I’m right.
Dad: Nice goal, but you’ve got to play cleaner. Haven’t seen a goaltender penalty on you in years.
No shit, Dad. It was practically Karlsson’s fault, but that’s not an excuse.
Wesley: Yeah, I know, but being back in New York and all…
Only, the second I hit send I know that won’t fly with him, and he calls me on it.
Dad: What does that have to do with it?
My stomach churns. My teammates get it. My dad probably never will. Trouble is, he’s also…right. I don’t usually let that shit get to me. I was sloppy. That’s why Coach told me to move on. Different approach, and I like Coach’s better. I blow out a breath and suck it up.
Wesley: Good point. You’re right. Thanks for the reminder.
Dad: Happy to help! Let’s get together for lunch when you’re back in town. We also still need to find some art for your walls. Tomorrow?
I stifle a groan. I just want to…do nothing tomorrow.
Wesley: I’ll hit you up then.
I do ignore the phone this time as I play a few hands with my teammates, feeling understood with them. With how they saw the interaction with Karlsson. Who cares if my dad and I don’t see eye to eye? At least my teammates do. We play for an hour, and Max and Asher take all my money. Coach strolls by at one point and Asher tips his chin at the guy in charge, saying, “Coach, you want to get in on it? Bryant is an easy target tonight.”
He stops, peers at Asher, and gives him a stern, serious look. “But I’m not. You still sure you want me in?”
Asher gulps, blanching. “No, sir.”
We play a few more hands till the game peters out, and I waggle my earbuds. “Gonna chill,” I say, then I turn to the window.
But chilling doesn’t come easily. As we slide into that time on the flight when everyone goes into their own worlds, I can’t quite get into my playlist of new tunes. I’m antsy, revved up.
My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. My mind is flooding with those images of Josie from last night. My body is crackling as we cross the country, flying closer to home.