Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Our flight landed around noon, an easy trip from LA, where we lost to the Demons but took down the Dragons. At this early point in the season, we’ve won as many games as we’ve lost, and that’s not bad for an expansion team.
“So what do you think about this team dinner?” Arch asks, his pace in lockstep beside me. Both of us are wearing heavy coats, hands in pockets, and hunched against the wind as we make the three-block walk.
He’s asking me not because we’re having a team dinner, but because Cherry is hosting it.
It’s unfuckingbelievable, really.
She’s somehow managed to ingratiate herself with the team owner and announced in a massive group text to the team and their family members that she was the founding organizer of the Wildfire Family Collective. What followed was a dozen perky messages about how honored she was to fill the much-needed role and that she will endeavor to do right by her new family.
I wanted to puke reading each one. It’s not because I can’t handle Cherry—she’s like an annoying flea—but it’s almost as if she’s perverting what a hockey team is to one another. We build camaraderie among the men who come from holding each other up in competition, and that is at the core of our foundation. By extension, family members are drawn into it, of course, but it’s like she’s trying to hijack that away from the players.
Cherry is making it all about herself and I hate that disingenuous crap.
“I think the dinner is a great idea,” I mutter, my breath fogging in front of me with each exhale. “But not how it came about.”
“Figured you’d say that.” Arch chuckles, adjusting the collar of his jacket against the cold. “Same ol’ Cherry, different day.”
“Yup.”
Winnipeg nights have a bite to them this time of year—nothing dramatic yet, but crisp enough to keep you alert. The city hums around us, traffic muted, lights reflecting off damp pavement. Up ahead, the restaurant glows warm and inviting through tall windows, a place that promises good food and better bourbon.
It really is an excellent choice. Best steak in the city, in my opinion.
“And what’s up with you and Juno?” Arch asks.
He says it casually—too casually. I clock the timing, the way he doesn’t look at me when he says it, the way his voice stays light but his pace slows half a step.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and turn to face him. “What do you mean?”
“Bro,” he says, breath puffing out in a laugh. “It’s cold out here and I’m hungry, so let’s not play coy. I know something’s going on with you two.”
My shoulders tense before I can stop them. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I wasn’t sure,” he admits, hands lifting in mock surrender. “But on the plane ride here… you two sitting next to each other—”
“We were talking,” I insist, even as I hear how thin it sounds.
“Yeah,” he says slowly, head tilting. “But the way you looked at her—and the way she looked at you?” He smirks. “When you’re not on that plane, you’re not just talking.”
I exhale hard and scrub my hand over my jaw, fingers rough against stubble. I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel defensive. Mostly, I feel caught—not because it’s wrong, but because I hadn’t realized how visible it was.
I wouldn’t lie about Juno. Wouldn’t sneak around like this was shameful. If Patrick Rowe knows, which he does, and he’s fine with it, then I honestly don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks.
But we’re two minutes from the door, the smell of seared beef already bleeding into the cold air, and this isn’t exactly a sidewalk conversation.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Here’s the short version.” I glance toward the restaurant, then back at Arch. “Yes, we’re seeing each other. Rowe knows about it. We’re being careful—mindful about not crossing any lines that mess with the integrity of her film. But we’re not making a big deal out of it, and we’re definitely not advertising it.”
“Understood,” Arch says with an easy nod as we start walking again. “But so you know…”
His tone makes my spine stiffen.
“You’re advertising it.”
My head whips to the right. “Really,” I say flatly. “It’s that obvious?”
“It’s that obvious,” he confirms. “But I don’t think anyone on this team would call you out for it.” He shrugs. “We may be a new team, but every one of them would have your back.”
I nod slowly. He’s right, and I know the trust is real with my mates.
“Except,” Arch adds, reaching for the door handle, “there’s one person who might blow it up.”
“Cherry,” I say.
He grins. “Bingo.”
“Fucking great,” I grumble as the door swings open and heat spills out to meet us.
Arch claps me on the back, hard enough to grab my attention. “Chin up, goalie.”