Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
So I did what any girl would do—I asked the internet for an opinion. What does it mean if an athlete is gasping for breath BEFORE the game? And then returns looking strong but strangely subdued and sweaty?
The interwebs, ever helpful, replied that Eric was either suffering from a panic attack or heart failure. Thanks, internet. At least only one of those things is fatal.
If anything had happened to him, though, I’d never forgive myself. So I’d ultimately found Doc Namath and sidled up to him in the athletic trainers’ bay. “Could you tell me, out of curiosity, what a panic attack looks like?”
He’d studied me from behind his thick glasses and frowned. “Darcy, are you having anxiety symptoms? That would be perfectly normal tonight.”
“Oh! I don’t mean me,” I’d said with a nervous laugh. “What would it, um, hypothetically look like on a player?”
His frown had deepened. “It would look like shortness of breath, irritability, and possibly chills or sweating. And it would also look like cowering in a broom closet or a bathroom stall because the poor asshole probably thinks hockey players don’t have panic attacks.”
My shoulders had relaxed significantly at that point. “Okay. That’s very helpful.”
The doctor had risen from his chair. “You’re not the first person to ask that question this season. I believe I’ll check in with a certain star forward to see how he’s feeling tonight.”
I’d practically sagged with relief when he made his way immediately to Eric. He’d motioned for the player to join him for a chat, and I’d made myself scarce.
Unfortunately, my relief was short-lived. Once the game began, it was clear that our boys weren’t playing their best game tonight. Their on-ice communication has been wonky since the first period, and their speed of play has been fritzy.
Worse yet—O’Connell got injured in the second period and was sent off the ice. And Weber isn’t taking as many shifts as usual, so there must be a story there, too.
Beside me, Zoe mutters, “It’s a miracle that we’re still in this thing.” Even as she says it, her boyfriend lunges for a wild pass from Larkin. “This game is just off. It has been all night. I should have become a tax accountant.”
“I hear tax time is pretty stressful,” I say, trying to keep our spirits up.
“God, Tremaine is struggling,” Zoe whispers suddenly. “What the hell?”
She isn’t wrong. Even on a bad night, he’s still more effective than most other players. But there’s a hesitation to his play tonight, a fraction of a second delay in his decision-making that I’ve never seen before.
My blood turns to ice as Florida’s star forward breaks away with the puck. Zoe gasps, and Eric goes after him. But in the fight for the puck, he’s about as subtle as a bull moose. He gets it back, but the ref’s arm goes up immediately.
“Slashing,” she hisses. “Oh shit.”
Oh shit indeed. Eric skates to the penalty box, and the next two minutes seem to last an eternity. We watch in disbelief as Florida scores on the power play, taking a 3–2 lead with only a couple minutes left in the game.
Everyone in the stadium is suddenly on their feet. The Florida fans are on fire with excitement. And when Eric emerges from the sin bin, his jaw is set in a way that makes my chest hurt.
Our coach pulls the goalie, and Eric finds more gas in his tank. He intercepts a pass at center ice, dekes past one defender, then another. Zoe and I stop breathing. But instead of shooting, he hesitates for a split second, looking for the perfect pass.
That’s all Florida needs. Their defenseman pokes the puck away, sending it up ice to their sniper.
4–2.
The last minute ticks down in agony, and when the final horn sounds, I’m actually in shock.
“Oh no,” Zoe says, hugging me. “I knew this could happen. But I didn’t really believe that it would.”
“Me neither,” I whimper.
When I glance down at the ice, my gaze finds Eric immediately. I can see the defeat in every line of his body.
It’s over. We’re not going to the finals.
Chapter 7
Real Helpful, Guys
Eric
I wake up on my side, drooling into the pillow, to a buzzing noise. It sounds like angry bees.
When I pry one eye open, it proves to be a mistake. The Florida sun is doing its best impression of a laser beam through the sheer hotel curtains. Why didn’t I close those blackout curtains last night?
Oh, right. Because I was hammered. Because we lost. Because the season is over, and I’m a failure who deserves this hangover.
My phone buzzes again. I grab it off the nightstand and squint at my messages. All forty-seven of them, most of which are from my parents. They’re worried about how “devastated” I looked during the postgame interviews.