Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 51484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
“I doubt she hates you, Sutton,” he says softly.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do. It’s impossible to hate you.”
“Then why does she still have me blocked on social media?” I brush a tear from my cheek. “Did you know she was engaged?”
“I didn’t know that. I haven’t talked to her in five years. Not since…” he trails off. “Well, that’s not important. The point is, I barely talked to her back then. We didn’t keep in touch once I was sent to Connecticut.”
I bite my lip, hesitating. It’s too much to ask. And yet… “Do you think she’d talk to you?” I whisper, clutching the phone like it’s a lifeline. “If you reached out?”
He’s silent for a minute. “Is that what you want? You want me to reach out to her?”
“I just…I want to know that she’s okay. And I guess I want her to know that I’m sorry for whatever he did. And that I’m sorry I didn’t know.”
“You can’t apologize for him, princess. It’s on him to do that,” Jordan says, his voice somehow firm and gentle at the same time.
“I know.” I exhale a sharp breath. “I just want her to know that I didn’t know. And that I’m sorry for that.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he murmurs. “But I’m not making any promises.”
“Thanks, Jordan.”
“You can thank me after the game tonight, princess. I want your face to be the first thing I see when I come off the ice.”
“Fine, but we are not having sex in the locker room, Jordan Silvestri.”
A loud laugh rumbles down the line, making me smile. “Baby, there are a dozen places I’d like to fuck you in that arena. The locker room damn sure isn’t one of them.”
“Glad we’re on the same page then.” There is no way I’m getting naked where his teammates sit their sweaty balls. No, thank you.
It’s been so long since I attended a game that I almost forgot how much I love them. Being in the arena is different than watching it on the television screen. On TV, you don’t really hear the rumbling of the crowd. You don’t feel the celebratory roars rolling over you in a wave of sound when someone nets a goal. You can’t make out the playful jeers and catcalls or hear the sticks slamming into the puck…or the guys slamming into the boards.
But in the arena, you’re surrounded by the sounds of hockey. There’s a certain electricity about it that a televised game will never be able to deliver. It’s thrilling, like a little piece of your heart is on the ice as you scream your head off and cheer your team on.
A big piece of mine was always on the ice. It was right out there with Jordan and my brother. Tonight, it’s out there with Jordan again. Every time he looks over at me, as if checking to see if I’m really there, my smile grows bigger and my heart beats faster.
I missed this. I missed watching him play. I missed seeing just how beautifully he moves and how quickly he reacts. I’m not even remotely surprised when he ends up in the penalty box twice before the first period is over. I’m even less surprised when he nearly gets in a fight after one of the Chicago Wind players checks Archer Graves from behind.
Jordan is on the guy, hauling him away from their captain before the guy even has a chance to turn around. The whole crowd hoots and hollers, stomping their feet. But Jordan doesn’t hit him. He just shoves him away, yells something at him, and then spins to help Archer up.
The game is close, all the way to the end. As the clock winds down, I’m on my feet beside Emilia Lariat and Peyton Cloud, screaming my head off. Jordan has the puck, but he doesn’t have an opening. He snaps the puck to River, who takes off down the ice in a breakaway.
The entire arena is so loud, I can’t hear myself think as River rushes toward their goal, the Wind’s nearest skaters racing to catch up. But there is no catching him. He whips down the ice so fast it makes me dizzy.
I lose sight of the puck for a moment when he turns to the left at the last second, only to catch sight of it again as the goalie for the Wind makes a frantic dive…and misses.
The puck slams into the back of the net, and the goal horn rips through the arena, drowned out by the crowd.
I squeal, jumping up and down with Emilia and Peyton.
The guys smack River on the back at center ice, celebrating their win. With less than six seconds left on the clock, it’s over with. The Wind fans aren’t thrilled about it, but ours are.