Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“I love this part of town,” I say, gazing out the window.
“Me, too,” he says. “It feels haunted, but…in a good way. If that makes sense?”
I jerk my focus back to his profile, wondering if reading minds is one of his many talents. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
He shoots another stomach-pitching grin my way. “Guess great minds think alike, Miss…” He arches a pointed brow. “No pressure, but I would like to know your name. If you feel like sharing it.”
“Wow, I’m so sorry,” I say, exhaling a shaky laugh as I realize he’s right. “I’m Eloise, but everyone calls me Elly. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Good to meet you, too,” he drawls. “I’m—”
“I know who you are,” I cut in. Pretending otherwise would be a big fat lie. I’m not about to tell him that I’m his number one podcast stalker fan, but there’s a limit to how much I’m willing to fudge the truth. “Grammercy Graves, Stanley Cup winner, hometown boy, kid brother to Grant Graves, rookie of the year, former Badger, now with the Voodoo and primed to give us an opening season NOLA will never forget.” I exhale an only slightly awkward laugh. “I’m very excited to have you home and playing for us. Very, very excited. Big fan.”
“Really? You follow the game pretty closely, then, huh?” There’s genuine surprise in his voice, and I think, a sliver of delight.
That sliver is enough to keep me gushing, “I’m a complete hockey nerd. Have been since I was a kid.” Hockey has always been a safe place for me, something I can geek out about without feeling like a weirdo. That’s one of the best things about being a sports fan—the other fans are always there to normalize your crazy. “My foster dad was obsessed with the game. We used to drive all over the south, catching minor league games whenever he could get time off work. We even saw your brother play once before he joined the Hucksters.”
“That’s so cool,” Grammercy says, his smile widening. “And rare down here. When I first started playing as a kid, half my fifth-grade class had no idea what ice hockey even was. They thought I was making it up.”
“Well, not super surprising given the Louisiana heat, but Papa Jim was raised in Minnesota. He grew up playing on frozen lakes and community rinks and watched every game on TV. He taught me to love the game, especially the old-school style.” My brows drift up. “He had a lot to say about faking injuries to draw a penalty or running down the clock when the team’s already ahead. Nothing pissed him off more than a pansy-ass game.”
Grammercy laughs, a rich sound that fills the car and makes my lips tingle. “Sounds like my kind of man.”
“He was the best,” I agree, hesitating only a beat before adding, “He would have loved your game. If he were still around.”
Grammercy sobers, and I immediately regret bringing down the vibe. Again. Between my rough childhood, dead foster parents, and sick kid, I’m well aware that my life skirts a little too close to “gothic tragedy” for a lot of folks. I’ve had more than a few people learn my backstory and decide to steer clear of me altogether.
There’s a certain segment of the population that believes misery is catching. Or that you must have done something to deserve your hard road, either in this life or the last one.
But somehow, I know Grammercy isn’t like that, even before he says, “I’m sure he’s still around. In his way. I don’t think the people we love are ever gone for good. Not when we carry all the memories we made with them and aren’t shy about sharing them.”
I just about melt through the buttery leather seat.
Could he be any more perfect?
“I agree,” I say. “I tell Mimi stories about Papa Jim all the time. I want her to know him, too, as much as she can. He passed before she was born, but he was such a lover. He would have adored every curl on her sweet little head.”
I sit up straighter, pulse picking up again. “Speaking of, we’re almost there, and there’s a shortcut to the emergency department. When we reach the hospital, take the second turn, then pull around behind, and we’ll pop out right in front of the ER.”
“Will do.” Just a minute later, we’re pulling into the hospital complex, the sprawling buildings of Children’s Hospital rising before us like a mini medical city. I’ve been here too many times in the past few years. I know all the shortcuts, every sneaky place to park, and the smell of institutional disinfectant haunts my dreams on the reg.
The familiar silhouette makes my stomach clench with another wave of anxiety.
I curl my fingers into my lap, squeezing my hands into one tight fist.