Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“He might be an idiot,” I say.
“He might,” she agrees. “But you’re not going to know until you give him the room to prove otherwise.”
“That’s terrifying,” I say.
“Yep,” she says.
“I hate it.”
“Yep.”
We sit with the rain and the wine and the four of us in this warm apartment and I let myself bask in the comfort of women who care about me.
Chapter 27
Locke
The problem with playing angry is that it has its benefits. Often, the anger sharpens everything—the read, the hit, the willingness to put yourself in the path of inevitable pain.
For the first forty minutes of this game, I’ve been a machine. I’ve been clean, efficient, and brutal without getting into trouble. Rome has been reading me perfectly from the right side, filling every gap I open, and the Seattle forwards have been bouncing off our defensive pairing like they’ve been running into a brick wall.
It’s all great until the forty-first minute.
I don’t even remember his name. He’s a second-line grinder, the kind of player who exists specifically to get under the skin of defensemen like me. He’s physical enough to be annoying, smart enough to know exactly how much he can get away with before the refs step in, and he’s been in my space since the second period.
There’s been the stick to the back of my knee, the chirping in my ear, and the crosscheck to my shoulder blades that had me kissing glass.
Drip, drip, drip until my bucket of patience overflows.
Under different circumstances, I might be able to manage it. I’ve been doing great for weeks.
But that was before Livia Cross turned my life upside down.
The grinder crosses the crease and clips Rome across the back of the helmet with a forearm that’s either deliberate or reckless. I can’t tell which and it doesn’t matter because I decide not to care anymore once Rome goes down.
Not badly—he immediately pops back up—but he’s shaking his head, slightly rattled. The ref has his arm up calling the penalty and the play is already dead. The grinder is drifting away with his hands outward, pantomiming his innocence, which I find more enraging than the hit itself.
Or maybe I find it more enraging because ever since I walked out of Livia’s office, the fury has been building. It’s aimed at her, at me, and now at this douche from the Storm.
I explode.
I cross the fifteen feet between us.
I don’t run. I don’t telegraph it. I just go after him.
My gloves are off before I fully decide they’re coming off, and I get two fistfuls of his jersey. The crowd noise shifts… higher and more electric and the his eyes go wide because he didn’t see me coming, which is information he should have had.
We don’t last long. The refs are in immediately, bodies separating us before it escalates past the grab and shove.
“Donovan.” The referee’s voice. “That’s two minutes roughing.”
“He hit my guy from behind,” I growl at him.
“He’s already got a penalty.”
“He needed more than a penalty.”
“Two minutes, Donovan. Let’s go.”
I skate to the box.
The home crowd gives me a sound I don’t deserve, a swell of appreciation from the Portland faithful who have decided they like when I enforce on the ice.
I don’t look at them. I sit down in the box and put my elbows on my knees and stare at the ice for the next one hundred and twenty seconds while the team kills off my penalty.
Van’s waiting for me in the corridor, blocking my line of escape from the locker room to the players’ lot.
We won, which should matter more than it currently does. Seattle took a two-goal deficit into the third and couldn’t close it. My teammates are flying on a post-win high with music blaring and towels snapping playfully.
I showered and dressed as fast as possible, keeping my eyes averted so no one would talk to me.
It’s been a week since I called things off with Livia and I’ve already climbed back into my shell and no one is pushing to drag me out.
Not even Livia, who has not attended a game on the ice with us since. Oh, I’m sure she’s here in the arena somewhere, but she’s been keeping her distance.
Which is what I wanted, right?
I even made sure of it when she found me the morning after our “third session” in the weight room.
I was bench-pressing a third set and Rome was spotting me. She stood off to the side and waited for me to finish, and while I wanted to ignore her, I knew she wouldn’t go away until I heard her out.
She was composed when I walked over to her. “Can we talk?”
“I’m in the middle of a workout.”
“After.”
“I’ve got film review after.”
She held my gaze. “Locke. Please.”
I glanced over at Rome who was scrolling his phone and then back to Livia. “Look… there’s nothing to talk about. I need you to let it go, okay?”