Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“You bring so much to the game, your experience. Your drive. Your three times voted People’s “Sexiest Man Alive.” I crack a smile, breathing so much easier now.
“I’m sure that will go over real well with the new guys.” He chuckles. “But Summer, I need you to know that I wouldn’t have given you up. Not even for hockey. July and August . . .” He shrugs. “Okay. I don’t love giving up those months I’d get to spend with you, or with Roman this summer at the Cove, but I think it’s best if I do this training program.”
Relief washes through me, wondering if I’ve just been waiting for a shoe to drop, and when it did, I fell with it the first chance I got. If this is the worst of it, we can overcome it. I need to trust him, and myself, but more so, I need to hold onto the trust we’ve built together. I push into his arms, embracing this man with my whole heart. “You’re leaving Mountain Laurel Cove.”
“Yes. But I’m not leaving you.”
I look up. “Technically, you are.” Smirking, I can’t contain it. “Sooner than I hoped. But this is life, and we’ll face it together.”
“We’re a few hours apart. I’ll do everything I can to make this work. Do you want that, too?”
I know the answer, feeling it in my soul. “I do.”
CHAPTER 28
DANIEL
THREE WEEKS LATER . . .
“What the fuck are you doing out there?” I punch the air, imagining it’s his face. Cupping my hand to the side of my mouth, I shout, “What the fuck kind of play was that, Landers?”
Shredding ice, he skids to a stop in front of me. “It’s called hockey, old man.” He pounds his fist twice on top of the wall, tempting me to jump over that wall and show him how the pros play. “Guess that’s why you’re on the bench, and I’m out here.”
“Listen up, fucker. Hockey requires you actually make contact with the puck, not skate by it like you’re still in PeeWee league.”
“It’s not 1985, Maverick. You need to get yourself some glasses.”
I’m yanked backward before I lunge over that small wall he thinks is protecting him. Two players pull me back as I shout, “Say that to my fucking face.”
“I just did.” He laughs, skating off.
A slow clap echoing from the tunnel has me looking over to see what shit is about to be thrown my way. I pull my arms free and sit on the goalie’s seat because I’m sure as shit not going to greet whoever it is after that entrance. “Old man? Ha! Good one.” Coach rounds the corner into our bench. “It’s rough out there, Sutton.”
He’s not wrong. This next generation of players is something else, the little fuckers. If I’d had the talent of some of these guys, my early years would have gone a lot smoother. “Coming to check on us, Coach?”
“Nope. But looks like I should have before now.” He cuts down the back of the bench to stand next to me. Arms crossed, looking all business, he keeps his indifference on his face as he watches the players on the ice. He’s always been hard to read unless you anger him. “Any talent?”
“As much as it hurts my hockey soul to say this . . .” I shake my head, but I won’t keep real talent down. “Landers is a good fucking player. He’s also a shit human.”
He chuckles. “Takes one to know one, huh?”
“Funny.” I chuckle. He’s not entirely wrong, though. I was a bastard before I met Summer, and with our schedules keeping us busy and apart, the role fits like a glove again.
Coach has never been much of a conversationalist unless he’s drinking, and then you can’t get him to shut up. His gaze is too distant, his mind not on the players on the ice or the bench. So I take a guess, “What did you really come down here to talk about?”
Pointing up at the second-level seats in the barn, he wags his finger. “I’ve spent quite a bit of time up there watching you this past week.”
“I didn’t know I was being spied on.”
“I like to see players in their natural habitat.”
Snapping, I point at the rink. “My habitat is out there, not here on the bench.”
He nods, looking down at his shoes like they’ve changed feet. “But I will say . . .” He looks at me again. “You’re not terrible. Your delivery needs some work, but the guys respect you, Landers excluded—”
“Fuck him.”
Laughing, he says, “I’ve seen some of their games improve.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I stand like a proud papa, mentally patting my own back. “I only made some suggestions and tweaked a few things. Landers is hardheaded, so not much progress there, but . . .” I shrug. “I was just making suggestions to do it, not that he needs my opinion.”