Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
I want to tell her that I’m close. That I’ve infiltrated the organization where that scum is. I’ll find him, and, mark my words, I’ll make him pay even if it’s the last thing I do.
But I don’t.
In fact, I’ve never spoken to her about my plans so as not to agitate her. I only share good news and tell her I miss her.
The nurse from earlier pushes the door open, the frown still etched on her face.
“Did you find anything on the footage?” I ask, my blood pumping.
“That’s the thing. The cameras in the hallway and elevator have somehow been disabled.”
9
KANE
“Callahan!”
The coach’s voice grinds the scrimmage to a halt.
As usual, Jude has just flattened Price against the boards and skated away with the puck as if it’s perfectly normal.
Coach Slater is a veteran of the game, born and bred in the town and a proud product of Graystone University’s unmatched hockey program.
He’s tall, lean, balding, and has a beer belly. Although he’s strict, his understanding of team harmony and execution style is top-notch. He’s known for pushing players beyond the limits they think exist.
Not Jude, though.
That motherfucker has no limits.
Instead of helping Price up, Jude glares at him for daring to interrupt his flow.
Coach stares at him from the bench, his skin turning red. “I told you not to touch my fucking players, Callahan. Save the destructive energy for the other teams.”
Jude lifts his shoulder in pure disdain. “I thought this was a scrimmage and we were supposed to play as if it’s a real game.”
“Did you miss the part about minimizing the risk of injury?”
“Minimizing is not eliminating.”
“Off the ice. Number 71, five-minute major for boarding.”
“Come on, that was hardly a two-minute penalty,” Jude argues with a murderous face.
“Off my rink. Now.”
Jude makes a face as he skates to the penalty box.
Great. Now I have to make do with ten players. Sometimes, Jude is just the most unreliable human I’ve ever come across.
When his brain functions, he performs miracles. When he allows his impulses to take over, he’s no different than an untamable wild horse.
I stare at him as he sits down, resembling a trapped animal. He’s been strange lately. And by strange, I mean he’s a hassle to maintain.
Even my impeccable containment skills have been falling short.
Something that hasn’t happened in all the time I’ve known him.
Which is our entire lives.
“Ready to be buried beneath ice, Davenport?” Preston, the captain and center of Team B, asks before the face-off in their offensive zone. “Your team is useless without a right winger.”
I keep my eyes on the puck.
Preston might be the master of pushing buttons, but that’s only because he makes it his mission to exploit his opponents’ weaknesses. He’s an expert at studying human nature and singling out the exact words that will ruffle the other person’s feathers. He’s gotten checked and thrown around more times than I can count, but he often comes out of it grinning in that slightly provocative manner, while Jude goes ballistic and starts a fight.
It's been our dynamic from the time we were shipped off to boarding school. Someone picked on Preston because he was scrawny and weak-looking, and Jude dismantled them. Sometimes, while bringing me along.
I preferred making their lives hell without lifting a finger, though.
As we grew up, Preston lost the childhood weakness, but not the antagonistic behavior.
It became ten times worse.
Too bad for him, though. I have no weaknesses he can exploit, so his methods have never worked on me. His words are merely white noise.
I steal the puck for my team and tie the score. The coach shouts instructions at Preston’s defense, sounding like he wants to strangle them.
Despite my best attempts to minimize the damage, Team B’s power play allows them an advantage I can’t shake off. By the time Jude comes back, we barely manage to hold on to the tie.
He body-checks like a motherfucker and nearly gets another penalty for the reckless play.
We end up winning, but the coach lectures us about being responsible on the ice before he lets us go shower.
“I have an idea for taking care of the Callahan problem,” Preston whispers to me after I step out of the shower, a towel wrapped around my middle, and head to the locker side.
Preston has already finished showering, changed into jeans, a white shirt, and a Vipers jacket, and is currently styling his golden hair back with a comb. Every strand is perfectly in place.
I open my locker and drop my towel, then pull on my boxer briefs and sweatpants. “We can’t break his legs.”
“Aw, but that will save us from his shenanigans.”
“It’s a no.” Still not looking at him, I rummage through my duffle bag for a hoodie, then pull it over my head.
Preston parks his back against the locker next to mine, his stare turning icy, and his light mood shifts so fast, it’s as if it were never there. He’s the textbook definition of ASPD. He’s been diagnosed with sociopathy, bipolar disorder, and a basketful of other mental issues. He’s rumored to have killed his mother. A fact no one but himself can confirm or deny.