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)
After that, he grows silent, more focused on the rink.
I’m distracted as well when the game turns into a literal war. A brutal clash of power and strategy.
Through it all, it’s Kane who holds me hostage. Even in the chaos, his control is absolute, and the way he commands the ice is mesmerizing. Every time he moves, it’s like a pulse through my body, reminding me of how dangerously close I plan to get to someone who should terrify me.
And yet the more I watch him, the stronger my sense of trepidation becomes.
What type of upbringing did Kane have that caused him to turn into a literal ice machine? Is it even possible for someone to be so technically perfect? I’m not sure if it’s because I only recently got into hockey, but I haven’t seen him make any mistakes.
After the game ends in the Vipers’ favor—barely—the players skate to the bench area and then to the locker room.
Kane follows with a hand on Preston’s neck as he speaks close to his ear, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.
At the beginning of the game, the first place he looked as soon as he got on the ice was at me. I even think I saw an expression of satisfaction.
But now, he leaves the rink without a look behind.
My heart sinks.
Why the hell did he ask me to come watch him if he was going to give me the cold shoulder? Is this another tactic?
As the arena starts to empty out, the crowd talking animatedly, Marcus and I don’t move.
He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, but the last thing I want is to stay near the asshole. The only reason I stay is because I want to milk him for information.
I face him. “Hey, Marcus.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a center like Kane, but how come you two play differently?”
He spears both hands behind his head and leans back against the seat. “So now you’re an expert in hockey? I swear you didn’t even know how many players were on a team a few months ago.”
“People learn. So tell me, what’s the difference between the two of you?”
“What did you notice that’s different?”
“Kane’s movements are smoother.”
“He’s boringly technical. Just like Armstrong. They learned hockey from expensive coaches and camps that could only be afforded by their generational wealth. They feel violence is beneath them, so they steer clear of it, no matter what. They should play tennis instead of hockey.”
“But Jude is violent.”
“He’s different. He has inborn talent that couldn’t be killed by expensive coaches. He’s the only one worthy of respect out of the three. Probably the one who dragged them into the game as well.”
“Am I right to think acquiring such technical skills means rigorous training and a strict routine?”
“Yes. Heard they spent their childhood in an all-boys boarding school, where they were taught…severe discipline.”
My scalp tingles with unease “How were they taught?”
“Ask him.” He smirks. “If you dare.”
Before I can probe some more, he stands up and walks out.
Some of the girls notice him and follow after him like moths to flames. I mean, I know Marcus is strikingly handsome with his whole je ne sais quoi attitude, but there should be some sense of loyalty to our college. Marcus is like our team’s archnemesis.
I mean the Vipers’.
It’s not our team.
After sticking around for some time until the arena empties, I’m asked to leave by security.
On my way out, I check my texts, and my mood sours when I find nothing from Kane.
I should’ve spent my precious time by Violet’s side instead of catering to his stupid whims.
My steps are lethargic as I head to the parking lot where I left my bike. It’s empty now except for a couple of cars. The light is dimmer here, and the silence lingers like a layer of smog.
I quicken my pace toward the bike parking area and pause.
The bike isn’t there.
Someone stole it?
It’s not even that great. I kick the pole, then groan in pain.
Goddamn it. My bike is my only mode of transportation. I don’t have the money to buy another one.
A car stops beside me and I look up, my brow furrowing.
A golden Rolls-Royce’s back window rolls down to reveal Isabella Drayton.
Her hair is gathered in a ponytail and she looks down on me as if I’m the dirt beneath her car’s tires. “What’s up, Charity? Can’t find a ride home?”
“My name is Dahlia and my business is none of yours.”
“I was going to offer you a ride. As charity, Charity.”
“No, thanks.” I search my surroundings just in case the bike was moved.
“You don’t get to refuse me. When I order, you only comply, bitch.”
I swing around toward her, about to give her a piece of my mind, but a shadow appears from behind me.
Before I can figure out who it is, something pricks my arm.