Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 87771 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87771 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Ugh,” I said, rubbing my face before getting out of bed. “This fucking sucks.”
I shuffled to the bathroom and started to get ready for the gym. If I wasn’t going to get my frustrations out with a naked Gabe, then I’d do it with a set of heavy weights.
Besides, we had two games to focus on. I had to clear my head. Lock in.
And, maybe most important of all, I had to keep Gabe locked out.
I rolled my suitcase down the bumpy cobblestone path toward a shade-covered table. Emmy sat there, sipping on his coffee and looking out at the river. The Spanish moss hung down like a curtain ready to close around him.
“Hey,” I said. “Coffee any good?”
“It’s as good as the view.” He smiled as I sat across from him. I sipped on my own coffee.
“Yeah, I agree, it’s pretty damn good.”
Our bus wasn’t supposed to get here for another half hour, and I’d been driving myself crazy, stuck inside the hotel room. I was bored with mindlessly scrolling on my phone, and I couldn’t really get into the one book I was reading, which happened to feature a star-crossed romance plot between two FBI agents. Wasn’t really in the mood for much pining and swooning, and the action scenes were too short. I flipped through all the channels on the TV and found nothing, not even a good Forensic Files episode or an entertaining hockey game. I resorted to sitting at the small wooden desk next to an air-conditioning unit and flipping through a magazine about the city of Savannah and all it had to offer.
Emmy must have sensed my anxious mood (he did have eyes, after all) because he offered to grab a coffee and some fresh air with me, which I very much appreciated.
We won our first game and suffered an embarrassing loss for the second. A variety of factors were at play. Not having Gabe on the ice was a big one, even though his replacement held his own. I made some rookie mistakes in the second game that I was sure were going to come up in the video review, and I was ready to get chewed out by the coach. They were stupid mistakes: I lost the puck three times and threw a panic clear right down the middle. Even more surprisingly was Emmy’s performance on the ice. He was usually so controlled and intentional with his plays, and he became one with the ice on his blades, but last night, he’d seemed off for some reason.
It wasn’t like him. I wasn’t sure what was going on with Emmy, but I knew exactly what was happening with me.
I just couldn’t fucking focus. Gabe had me messed up. I found myself thinking about him all weekend. I had texted him to make sure he got home safe, and we talked a little bit more. He apologized and promised he’d make up for it, which did make me feel better, but I still had a nagging feeling that something was off. That I was making a mistake somehow.
It was stupid of me to get so hung up on a guy I could never have, to have it affect my performance in a sport that was my entire life.
You can’t even break into the NHL. You’ll never get there.
I swallowed the acid aftertaste of that memory. My ex-boyfriend was brutal with his words when he was angry. And he didn’t even have to be angry at me, yet the blisteringly hurtful comments would somehow end up being aimed at me. He could have had five consecutive long days at work—he was an ER doctor, so those days were common—and then be upset at me for overcooking the pasta we were supposed to have for dinner. Then the tirade would begin, the shouting and pointed attacks meant to hurt and belittle. I’d quickly shut down. He would be spurred on by my silence.
Over and over again. My self-confidence had taken a brutal blow after enduring that for four years.
Interestingly enough though, the longer I played with these guys and this team, the less my desire to jump to the NHL became.
“You know, I got married not too far from here,” Emmy said, still looking at the river as though he hadn’t dropped a pretty big reveal. I had no idea Emmy was married—or had been married? “My wife’s family and friends were all based here. I had met her when I was playing one of these games against the Sharks, actually. She was at the bar the team went to after our wins. Anyway, met her and proposed to her three months later. Then got married a year later, on December twentieth, actually.”
“Holy shit, Emmy, that’s coming up. Next week.”
“It is. It’s why I played like shit yesterday. I won’t be able to celebrate it—Cassie died last year.”