Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
So I maintain the distance. I thought it’d be harder to do, considering we live together, but Hunter isn’t around much in the days following our confrontation. I can’t completely avoid him, though, because we’re forced to interact during practice.
Harvard is still leading our conference. We play them again in a few weeks, so Coach Jensen and Coach O’Shea are working us even harder these days. On Wednesday morning, we run several one-on-one drills, followed by a three-on-three mini-game—Jesse, Matty, and me, versus Hunter, Nate, and Kelvin.
Hunter and I take center. As he gets into position, I glimpse his determined expression and know this ain’t gonna be pleasant.
I’m not wrong. He gains possession and skates off. When he tries to pass the puck to Nate, it’s intercepted by Matt, who snaps it over to me. I fly toward the blue line and dump the puck, catching up to it again behind the net. I barely get my stick on it before I’m slammed into the boards. The hit is harder than necessary, and so is the elbow to the ribs, courtesy of Hunter.
He flashes a humorless smile and steals the puck from me. Then he’s gone.
Motherfucker, that hurt. But fine. Whatever. I let it slide. He has a right to be angry, and it’s better he let out his aggression on the ice rather than off it.
Here in the arena, it’s controlled violence. Which is one of my favorite things about hockey. It might be stupidly primal, and maybe it makes men as dumb as women claim we are, but sometimes it’s nice to release our pent-up aggression in a place where we can’t get in trouble for it.
As practice continues, the encounters between me and Hunter get more and more physical. Our teammates start to notice. Nate whistles softly when I give Hunter a bone-jarring crosscheck. I swear I hear the breath leave Hunter’s lungs.
“Save it for the game,” Nate urges after the whistle blows.
We line up for another face-off. Hunter’s eyes are blazing at me. He didn’t like that check. Well, I didn’t like his elbow in my ribs, but what can you do.
This time I win the face-off. Jesse and I flip the puck back and forth as we plan our attack. Lazy and predatory. Hunter’s line doesn’t like being toyed with, and just as they go on the attack, Jesse snaps the puck to me and I take my shot. Corsen stops it with his stick, then passes to Hunter.
I chase after him, and we wind up behind my net. Elbows are thrown. One hits me in the center of the throat. For a second I actually can’t breathe. I gasp for air, but my windpipe isn’t working. I feel like I’m choking.
Hunter doesn’t care. He gives me a shove as he skates away, and I manage to catch my balance before I fall. That throat move? No way.
I skate after him, the game all but forgotten. “What the hell was that?”
A hush falls over the rink. I hear the hiss of Nate’s skate blades as he comes to a stop a few feet away from us.
“It was a clean hit,” Hunter says.
I growl. “Nothing clean about that.”
“No? Sorry, then. My bad.”
His careless tone grates on my last nerve. “Whatever, bro. If knocking me around makes you feel better, go for it.”
“Aw, how generous of you, giving me permission to throw down. Totally makes up for the fact that you’re fucking the chick I like.”
Yup, he went there.
Nate skates closer, his stick dangling loosely from his glove. “C’mon, guys, we got work to do.”
We ignore him.
“Look, Summer and I have been dancing around each other for more than a year. I had a thing for her before I ever knew you.”
“Funny, you didn’t mention having a thing for her when I told you that I did.”
I can feel our teammates watching us, which gives rise to the familiar prickling sensation that means all eyes are on me because I’ve just been dropped into drama I can’t avoid.
I push past him, but he grabs a handful of jersey.
“Let’s not do this here,” I mutter.
“Why not? You don’t want everyone to hear what a dick you are?”
“Hey, ladies!” Coach shouts. “We don’t have all day. Get your asses back to the bench.”
Hunter reluctantly obeys. I happily do, because being the center of attention makes my skin crawl.
Coach announces we’re running more battle drills. The first drill involves two players out of the corner—one needs to drive the net, the other has to stop him. From the bench, I watch as several pairs battle it out. Then it’s my turn, and I’m not at all surprised when Coach announces I’m up against Hunter. Maybe, like me, he’s hoping Hunter will release all his hostility and leave it on the ice.