Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
I stood up to Tyler. I did that. Finally. And it feels . . . amazing.
The relief is immense, like the young woman I used to be, the one with issues that Tyler exploited . . . that bit her tongue so many times . . . that barely made it out . . . that woman finally has her day in the sun, and the lightness of her spirit is returning, filling me with freedom.
I don’t know that I could’ve done it without Dominic, but the most important thing is . . . I did it. When it came down to it, I didn’t hide behind him. I stood in the storm of Tyler, and blew back like the category 5 hurricane I always wanted to be.
Dominic wraps an arm around my shoulder and drags me in, pressing a kiss to my head. When he pulls back, his gaze is full of something that looks suspiciously like pride.
“Feel better?” he whispers.
I nod and tell him, “Thank you.”
With them gone, Dominic and I watch the rest of Harley’s game together, cheering and having a good time. The team loses, but he shows real focus and hard work, which is what I want him to get out of playing anyway. I don’t need him to be some hockey protégé. I want him to have fun doing something he enjoys and have a way to process emotions that are too big for his little body.
“Where’s Dad?” he asks when Dom and I walk up.
“He left,” I say evenly.
“Probably because he saw you and Dom kissing,” Harley teases, his eyes wide and his smile growing. “But you’re friends. Right?”
“The best kind of friends,” Dom tells him, ruffling his sweaty hair.
I bend down, getting on my son’s level. “Is this okay with you?”
“You dating Dominic Lee? Yeah, Mom. It’s kinda the coolest thing ever.” He grins, glancing back at his teammates, who are watching Harley with newfound awe. I guess having a professional hockey player show up to your game is pretty cool to nine-year-olds. Hell, to twenty-eight-year-olds, I think with a tingle.
I stood up to Tyler. Dominic stood up to Tyler.
I’m happy. Harley is happy.
And finally—finally—I breathe freely.
Chapter 22
Dominic
“She’s off-limits,” Kipson declares before I even sit down.
“Sofia, you mean?” I respond pointedly as I fall into the booth across from him.
He glares at me so hard that I begin to measure the distance between us, making plans in case he throws hands. “Yes,” he grits out.
“Fine,” I agree. “That’s your fuckup to deal with. For now. So why are we here?”
Here is O’Neal’s, where, much to my surprise, Kipson invited me today. So either he’s going to kill me or he has a friendship bracelet kit in his hoodie pocket. One or the other for sure. And let’s just say I still don’t think he’s the “BFF4EVR” type. This has trap written all over it and my guard is up.
“Tell me about the Hawks,” he orders after the waitress sets two beers down in front of us.
“You gotta sweet-talk me first.” I lift my brows, taunting him and risking my life in the process. I like to live dangerously, and I think Kipson appreciates my irreverence for his grumpy attitude. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself that tick below his eye means.
“Tell me about the Hawks . . . please.” I think it actually pained him to have some manners, and I decide that’s as sweet as he’s capable of in his current state.
“What do you want to know? We won the Cup last year, probably gonna win again this year barring injury. Stupidly traded their greatest defenseman, so they’re down one of the best players this season. You can look their stats up yourself.”
He growls. “Tell me about the team.”
I take a drink of my beer, thinking before I answer. I could just tell him what he wants to know, but that’s too easy. For us both. And ultimately, that doesn’t serve my purpose, which is to fix him. “To start, they had the best defense in the league—”
“Because of Mahoney.”
“He is pretty good,” I say agreeably, “almost as good as me.”
He grunts out a bare laugh. “Neither of you are as good as me.”
I grin, letting him have that one because a joke, even a snarky one, is a step in the right direction and the tiniest start of what could grow into a camaraderie between us. “I’d rank us one, two, and three. Me, best. Griffin, great. You . . . mostly alright.” I wave my hand in a so-so gesture.
It’s a test. He could stand and leave at the hint of an insult, even if it’s meant as a good-natured tease. He could also stay and tell me why the sudden interest in my old team.
Old team?
As much as I hate to admit it, I’m not a Hawk. Not anymore. I’m not entirely sure I’m truly a Blizzard, either, though.