Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 114951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
She gave her husband a very particular look with that last part, like she was reminding him of something I didn’t know.
“So I asked if he wouldn’t mind helping. And he was so kind to oblige.” She smiled, nodding my way. “Thank you again, Shane. I appreciate your help. But you should get going! I know you want to get rest before morning skate.” She turned to Nathan then. “Is everyone still on the patio? I can bring limoncello?”
Nathan was quiet for a long, heavy moment.
His eyes narrowed so slowly I’d have missed it if I wasn’t watching him so closely. And once again, he looked long and hard at his wife.
And then at me.
Suddenly, he smiled, the gesture warping his face into the perfect picture of amiability. “Very kind of you to help, Coach.” His smile slipped, his gaze hardening, and then he turned the grin on his wife. “Limoncello would be lovely, sweetheart. Why don’t you pour up some glasses and I’ll meet you out there?”
Ariana nodded, and she didn’t so much as chance a glance at me before she was slipping out of the kitchen on her way toward their bar.
Nathan slid his free hand into his pocket, sipping his liquor. He smiled at me again. “Well, have a good night then, Coach.”
The last fucking thing I wanted to do was leave, but what else could I do?
This was my general manager.
Ariana was his wife.
I didn’t know anything other than they were maybe having a fight or an off night. That didn’t warrant me doing anything other than what I had — offering Ariana someone to talk to.
And she hadn’t wanted to talk.
Still, it was eating at me — the way he treated her tonight. I didn’t care what they were arguing about. You didn’t treat someone you loved like that, no matter what.
And her wrist…
What the fuck was up with that?
My instincts were blaring that he’d hurt her somehow. But as soon as I thought it, I shook it off.
Ariana wouldn’t stand for it.
She’d grown up in a household watching her mother in that situation. I knew at the first sign of abuse, she’d be gone.
… Wouldn’t she?
“Do you need me to walk you out?” Nathan asked, still grinning. “Seems like you might have lost your way to the door earlier.”
I tried to smile back, but it fell flat. “Not at all. Go back to your party, sir. I’ll see you next week.”
Again, I didn’t want to leave, but I didn’t know what else to do.
So I made my way toward the door.
A hard hand slammed against my chest before I could slip past Nathan.
“And Coach?”
I angled my chin toward him, waiting, my hands curling into fists.
“Watch yourself around my wife. Understand?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He smiled, nodding with a pat against my chest where he’d had my shirt gripped before. “Test me, and you’ll find out,” he said.
He released me, heading back to the party.
And I drove home with murder in my veins, my foot hard on the gas pedal, knuckles white on the wheel.
I had to get Ariana alone.
I had to figure out what the fuck was going on.
I had to expose that snake of a man for exactly who he was.
And I had to start planning how to do it.
Tonight.
No Pressure
Ariana
Present
The arena was alive with joy.
The Skate for Change event was in full swing — skates scraping, kids screaming, whistles blowing, holiday music echoing off the metal rafters. It was loud and messy and too cold for anyone sane to call it cozy, but everything in me melted, anyway.
This was what I lived for.
All the days planning, the nights of long, hard work, the behind-the-scenes emails and phone calls and schedule management to make it all happen — it all led to this. There was nothing like seeing your vision come to life even better than you imagined, to look around at a literal arena full of smiles and know you made it happen.
“Okay, check-in tables are stocked, raffle tickets ready, donation boxes out,” I murmured, ticking through my mental list as I weaved between clusters of people in the lobby. Sweet Dreams banners hung from the railings, the logo bright and hopeful. Volunteers in matching t-shirts stood at folding tables, greeting families with smiles and Sharpies in hand.
A little girl in a knit hat beamed as she slid a paper wristband up her arm. “Do I really get to skate with the players?” she asked her mom.
“Sure do,” I interjected, winking at the mom when she smiled at me. “They’re all out there waiting.”
She squealed and tugged her mom toward the rental skates.
My wrist throbbed as I reached to straighten a banner stand. The ache pulsed under my bracelets, where the faint shadow of a bruise hid against my skin. I flexed my fingers, wincing, and told myself the same story I’d been repeating for days.