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 bet that’s a thing that feels pretty nervous in your belly,” she’d said, her big brown eyes full of compassion beyond her years.
“Yeah, it is,” I’d said. “But it’s okay to be nervous. And sometimes, if you try hard enough, you can convince your brain that the nerves are excitement, instead. That’s when things get fun.”
She’d thought about that for a second before nodding. “That’s smart, Gee. I like that you’re smart.”
“I like that you’re smart, too, Meems,” I’d said, a wave of affection filling my chest for the wise little soul sipping fancy water beside me in her overalls and tiny pink tennis shoes.
And then there’s her mama…
Her equally clever, funny, kind, sexy as hell mama, who gives my blood pressure a workout on the regular.
This morning in the kitchen, when she was stretching for Mimi’s water bottle on the top shelf, up on her toes in those criminally short pajama shorts, her camisole riding up to reveal golden skin that made my mouth go dry.
I moved in behind her to help, reaching past her just as she shifted backward, and suddenly we were pressed together—her back against my chest, her heat seeping through my T-shirt, her hair brushing my jaw. I had to lock every muscle to keep from pulling her against me, from wrapping my arm around her waist and dropping my lips to the skin on her beautiful neck.
Then, her breath rushed out, and her ass pressed the slightest bit closer to where I was fighting like hell not to get hard, and hope spiked in my blood fast enough to make me dizzy. If Mimi hadn’t barged in at that exact moment, begging Elly to help her find her rainbow sweatpants, who knows what could have happened?
Elly had pressed closer, right?
I didn’t imagine it?
Fuck, I hope I didn’t. The only thing worse than catching forbidden feelings for my fake wife would be fooling myself into thinking she’s feeling them, too. I don’t want to be alone in this.
Then what do you want? You’d better figure it out and talk to Elly about it before you do something stupid like go in for a kiss and scare her into moving out. She and Mimi have been through enough.
“Hey, you cool, dude?” Parker whispers as he settles onto the bench beside me. “You look nauseous. Is it my socks? Are they really that bad?”
Before I can answer, the door bangs open and Coach Merwood stalks in, looking like a linebacker wrestled into a suit, with his beard freshly trimmed in honor of the occasion.
“Quiet,” he calls out. “Butts on benches, ears open.”
The room goes quiet instantly.
Even Nix pulls out his earbuds, knowing better than to engage with his “device” in front of our old-school leader. Merwood is relatively chill for a head coach, but he’s been known to toss a phone in the urinal if a player makes the mistake of glancing at his screen in a meeting.
Now, he stands in the center of the room, letting his gaze sweep over us, drawing us in with the twitching of his thick brows above his steady gaze. “Twenty years ago, this city didn’t even have an ice rink worth a damn. Kids who wanted to play hockey had to fight like hell to learn the game. Now look where we are.” He spreads his arms, encompassing the state-of-the-art facility around us. “Opening night. NHL hockey in New Orleans, best city in the world.”
We cheer, Parker and I louder than the rest, because we feel the truth of that in our bones.
New Orleans is our wild, fierce, joyful, haunted, hopeful, not-going-down-without-a-fight home, and we’re ready to show her she raised us right.
“You boys are about to make history. You’re ready, you’re focused, you’re primed to give these people a game they won’t forget,” Merwood says, what looks like a smile hidden in that glorious beard. “Now get out there and make me proud.”
The locker room erupts with fresh cheers, fists pounding helmets and shoulders, sticks slapping the floor. We head for the tunnel, buzzing, hearts drumming in sync. Halfway down, another wall of noise slams into us, this time from the fans. Twenty thousand people packed in tight, drunk on hope, primed for the Voodoo to make them fall in love with this game.
As we step onto the ice, the rink gleams—pristine, perfect, waiting for us to carve our story into it.
Our victory.
Fuck bad luck and jinxes and evil eyes. We’re going to win tonight. I refuse to settle for anything less, not with all my favorite girls here to cheer me on.
I’m going to give them a night they’ll always remember.
“Réveillez les lwa,” I shout as we wheel toward the bench to a roar that shakes the building.
It’s the Voodoo’s slogan—wake the spirits—an homage to our city and the supernatural level of hell we’re about to unleash on the Outlaws.