Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
It meant something. Or maybe it didn’t. I can’t figure it out.
I bend down, scoop up the soccer ball, and take a slow breath, letting the country music fade into the next track. Chris Stapleton now—gritty voice, emotional lyrics. Not exactly helping.
I should text her. Or avoid her entirely and pretend last night never happened.
But none of those options feel clean.
“Yo, Grizz!”
Tanner pops around the corner, grinning. “Jesus, been calling your name like twenty times. You coming? Power play meeting in ten.” His grin widens when he gets a good look at me. “Damn. You look like shit. You sleep okay?”
“I slept fine,” I lie.
“Hmm.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Does this have anything to do with our favorite PR princess?”
I spin the ball on my finger. “Don’t start.”
He smirks, knowing exactly what that means. “So something did happen.”
“Nothing happened.”
He whistles low. “Liar.”
I meet his eyes, dead serious. “Cut the shit, Tanner.”
He blinks in surprise, hands up. “All right. Damn. Sensitive subject. Didn’t know you were already in your feels.”
I walk past him before he can see the truth on my face because he’s not wrong. Not about the feels, not exactly, but about the fact that something’s different today.
Daisy Turner is the reason for it.
And I can’t decide if I want to run straight through it or run like hell the other way.
As we head toward the dressing room, I crank the volume on my music until the bass rattles through my ribs. Country fades into rap right as we reach the doors—my signal, my gear shift, the moment I flip from human to weapon. But today, the switch sticks halfway, jammed.
The power play meeting drones on, the same spiel from the coaches as usual. Makes me wonder if they ever put thought into these or if they use it as a way to make sure we’re all dialed in for the game. Once it’s over, I gear up with the rest of the team and before I know it, it’s game time.
I’m usually gone the second the puck drops.
Physically, I’m on the ice. I’m skating and moving, but mentally? I disappear into that vortex where nothing exists except angles and instincts and the next play. It’s the closest thing I have to a religion, the only place where everything makes sense.
But tonight, I can’t get there.
Every shift feels a little off. Every time my skates dig into the ice, every time the puck touches my stick, every time I’m supposed to feel that surge of instinctive certainty… I feel something else. Or someone else.
Fucking Daisy.
It’s like she’s sitting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, distracting the parts of me that are usually bulletproof. And it’s starting to irritate me, because if there’s one place I can’t afford to be diverted, it’s on the ice in the middle of a game.
I chase down a loose puck along the boards and get shouldered by one of their defensemen, but instead of letting that spike my adrenaline, all I hear is Daisy’s voice. I hear her laugh, feel her breath against my mouth.
The whole period I’m consumed by this.
I’m half a second late on reads. And in hockey, a half second late is death. I’m a stride off in the neutral zone. I keep overthinking simple plays.
Between whistles, I roll my shoulders, trying to shake it off. I tug at my jersey. I try to get mean, to get pissed.
But nothing sticks.
Midway through the second, we’re battling in the Cougars’ zone, puck bouncing around. There’s a scramble in front of the net—bodies crashing, sticks swinging, chaos in motion. I fight my way through it, fire a shot that rings off the post, and just as I’m bracing for the rebound—
Boom.
A Cougars defenseman plows into me and cross-checks me square in the chest. Hard.
It knocks the wind out of me and I stumble back, vision blinking in and out for a split second.
And then everything goes still.
I look up at him.
He’s smirking, a toothless grin, looking down at me. He expects a reaction. He wants one badly. Like every other guy in this league who’s figured out you can goad me into a penalty if you push the right buttons.
And normally he’d be right.
Normally I’d swing, shove, grab, drop my gloves and make him regret even thinking about touching me.
Normally I’d bury him, but this time… I just stare at him.
My fists stay at my sides. No swing, no shove—only a stare that feels foreign even to me.
His smirk falters and confusion cracks through it. He expected fire and got nothing but silence. My heartbeat is steady, not the usual war drums, and I keep waiting for the indignant rage to take over.
It never comes.
The ref skates in, whistles shrieking. “Cut the shit, you two!” But there’s nothing happening. Even the ref is awestruck I haven’t started swinging at the guy.