Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“You still ate, didn’t you?” His eyebrow arches, his tone softer.
“There may have been a package of leftovers at our door that night, yes.” A large white casserole dish tucked inside a cardboard box, sitting on our doormat. I found it when I returned from collecting Isla from Dillon’s. It had Annie written all over it, but I suspect she made her son walk it over. “Isla was thrilled. Donna’s a terrible cook.”
“Good. Dillon deserves to suffer.” Logan chuckles, and the tension from moments ago dissipates.
“I told you, I don’t need you lying to protect me,” I whisper, peering up into his handsome face.
“Yeah?” His eyes graze my lips. “What do you need from me, then?”
This arena is always an icebox, colder than the air outside in the dead of winter, and yet the urge to tug off my scarf is overwhelming as sweat prickles my nape.
It takes me a few long moments to gather my decorum. “I need you to stay off people’s radar—”
Two players slam into the boards in front of us, rattling the glass and drawing attention to this spot as the ref calls another penalty.
From the stands, I see Dillon lean over to Donna, and I can imagine what he’s saying.
Is that Emery standing next to Logan Landry?
Is she watching her daughter’s game with that convict, in front of everyone?
Sure enough, a moment later he’s digging out his phone and ten seconds after that, my phone chirps.
I won’t give my ex the satisfaction of checking the message, let alone answering it. “Enjoy the game,” I say to Logan, swiftly walking away from him.
And toward Axel Murphy, wedging myself between him and a parent.
Ian’s son glances over at me before shifting his focus back to the ice, pretending not to know who I am. As if they don’t all have a picture of my face up on a wall somewhere with a strict “Do not talk to her” warning attached to it.
Fine, he wants to play dumb? Two can play that game. I force a wide smile. “Hey, you run Iron Hook Towing, don’t you?” His toque bears the logo.
He eyes me warily. “Yeah.”
“I heard you were a big help at that accident last month. The woman who hit two deer.”
Recognition flickers in his gaze. “Right. That was a gnarly night.” He hesitates, as if not sure whether he should engage. “Do you know if she made it?”
“She did. Some broken bones, but nothing that won’t heal.” I settle against the glass and watch Isla’s team set up their power play, passing back and forth as the other team scrambles to keep them outside. Isla sees an opening and fires off a shot. It sails over the goalie’s shoulder and into the back of the net, earning a round of cheers.
“Nicely done,” I murmur, more to myself, too focused on subtly questioning this guy. “So, who are you here to watch?”
Axel’s mouth curves in an exaggerated frown. “No one. Had a call for a dead battery in the parking lot out front. Thought I’d come inside and catch a few minutes.” He checks his watch. “Time to get back to work.” With that, he marches away, pushing through the closest set of doors.
Plausible? Yes.
But he sure moved fast. Is he avoiding more questions?
There are several cameras on the outside of the arena and, unlike the Bale House, they’re too high up to smash. I make a mental note to check his story on Monday.
A scuffle on the ice pulls my eyes back in time to watch Isla lunge at an opposing teammate, shoving her hard. The girl—Erin Griffin, I recognize—manages to stay on her feet.
Until Isla takes a swing at her face cage, sending Erin backward to sprawl like a starfish, earning shouts from the Cold River parents in the stands.
I frown. This is not like Isla. She may be aggressive during the game, but to go on the offensive when the puck’s not in play—moments after she scored—isn’t her style. It’s stupid, and with a stickler ref, she’ll get punished.
Sure enough, the whistle blows, and after the officials confer at center ice for a lengthy moment and then visit the bench, Isla is skating for the rink door, and a five-minute penalty goes up on the board for one of her teammates to serve on her behalf.
I curse.
By the time I round the rink, Isla has already charged off to the change room.
Logan is where I left him. “Did you see what happened?” The fight unfolded in his corner.
“Yeah, your kid has a nice right hook,” he says, too calmly.
“This isn’t funny,” I hiss.
“No one’s laughing.” He sighs. “Words were exchanged. The Cold River player said something Isla really didn’t like and she reacted.”
“With her fist, though?” After shoving the girl first? Again, that’s not my daughter. She’s learned to shrug off chirping and get her revenge in the game. There might be an odd trip or hook here and there when the ref’s not looking, but never anything that’s grounds for a suspension.