Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
I can’t.
Because Declan’s jaw is tight, eyes burning, and I know exactly what that look means: He’s out to get me.
Good—I can take it.
I welcome the fight.
The bench door swings open.
Crowd noise swells.
Game.
On.
TWENTY-THREE
JULIETTE
“Explain to me again why I’m drinking a beer? I hate beer.”
I stare down into my cup full of foam, pressing the tip of my tongue to the outer rim.
Ew.
It tastes like the sourdough starter I forgot to feed before it went bad. Bitter and fermented—blech!
“Everyone drinks beer at a hockey game, that’s why,” Blaire informs me as if I wasn’t already aware. “Cheers.”
We tink our plastic cups together, settling into our spots, my eyes skimming the action down on the ice before easing into the seat. I wiggle my tush, glancing around, recognizing several of the parents of players I’ve met in the past.
I don’t come to the games often anymore—I used to.
But now I have more incentive.
No offense to Declan but Aaron is far more interesting.
I search the players for both men and find them at center ice, neither of them stretching. Neither of them doing figure-eights, or taking shots at the goal, or doing anything that resembles pre-game rituals.
Declan makes a sharp movement with his glove, jabbing it toward Aaron’s chest; he doesn’t budge. Then he says something that has my brother’s shoulders going rigid beneath his bulky pads.
This is the second time I’ve seen them like this.
Blaire notices, too, squinting down toward the ice. “Are they… arguing?”
I nod slowly. “Seems like it.”
It makes no sense.
Doesn’t it? a small voice in the back of my head asks. Your brother has been dragging Aaron behind the scenes and hijacked your morning coffee to cross-examine you about him.
Such bizarre behavior, right?
I seriously thought everyone on the team were friends. They’re supposed to be working together, not getting in altercations on the ice. And certainly not during a game! Stranger still, Garrett Storm appears to be playing referee.
Whatever they’re saying now makes Declan throw up his hands.
“Ohhh,” Blaire whispers. “This isn’t a hockey argument.”
I roll my eyes. “You can’t hear them.”
“I don’t need to. Look at their body language.” She pauses. “I blame Declan for whatever this is about, he’s such an asshole sometimes.”
I laugh. “You’re never going to take his side on anything.”
She shoots me a side-eye. “Why should I? A man will show you who he is every time.”
I turn to face her, twisting my body in the chair. “Blaire. He was a teenager when he stood you up for that dance. What has Declan done recently that would make you still detest him this much?”
“I’m sorry, I know he’s your brother—but once a guy does something shitty to you, you never forget it.”
Down below, Aaron skates a tight half-circle, cutting Declan off from heading toward the bench.
My brows rise. “They’re teammates. Aren’t they supposed to try and get along?”
“Teammates can hate each other.” Blaire sips from her beer. “Haven’t you ever worked with someone you wanted to shove into traffic?”
Uh, no—can’t say that I have.
The buzzer cuts off whatever my best friend is about to say next, ending warm ups. Players begin skating off toward their benches.
Aaron, Garrett, and Declan linger, tension rife.
Then Aaron lifts his head, gaze going straight into the stands.
There are hundreds of people here, but Garrett Storm spots me. My brother’s gaze follows his line of sight.
Then Aaron notices I’m here.
It’s a ridiculous domino effect.
I watch as Aaron lifts his hand to give me a slow, deliberate wave that somehow feels far more intimate than it should from fifty yards away.
My brother skates a few feet in front of him and waves, too. Then Garrett.
I laugh at the ridiculous nature of the moment: three grown men in full hockey gear waving and fighting for my attention. But as an excited shiver runs down my spine, a niggling sensation causes me to turn my head and glance down our row.
A blonde woman. Big, glossy hair that’s probably filled with extensions. Full glam. Fitted Ice Wolves T-shirt with Declan’s number on the sleeve.
She’s waving, too—of course she is—because everyone wants the team’s attention. The section is full of hopefuls and die-hards, many of whom would kill to go home with any of the players.
Dozens of fans sitting around us are holding handmade signs:
QUEEN SEEKS BISHOP
#10 WILL YOU MARRY ME?!
That particular fan is wearing a white veil over her knit hat, and her team jersey is bedazzled, ready for a walk down the aisle…
My smile falters at the blonde.
I want to say she looks familiar? But that would make no sense. I have never seen this woman in my life.
So why…
“Oh!” a woman behind us shouts. “They’re waving up here!”
Every head within a ten-seat radius swivels.
“Who are they waving at?”
“Is that someone’s wife?”
Blaire pops up out of her seat like she’s been training for this exact moment her entire life and throws both arms in the air as if they’re all here to see her. “Thank you! Thanks for coming!”