Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
And I’m about to do it again. With Johnny K.
I hesitate, but I know I have to do this.
But maybe . . . I don’t have to do it alone?
Chapter 14
Griffin
I’m riding my favorite kind of high—victory. The last two nights, the Hawks kicked ass on the ice and came out the winners both times. Not only that, I scored a goal, a rarity for someone whose job is to lock down the right side of the ice like the pro I’ve worked hard to become.
Pride hasn’t always been a familiar feeling. For most of my life, I felt ashamed, overlooked, and like the world would be better off without me in it. But finding my space, the one place I fit perfectly, changed all that for me, and now, I’m damn proud of who I’ve become and what I’ve accomplished because it wasn’t easy. I fought for this feeling. I’m still fighting for it.
There’s one tiny problem on today’s high, though. An asterisk that’s an approximately five-foot-two brunette with amber eyes, a smart mouth, and a penchant for catastrophe.
When Penny texted me Friday night, my first reaction was almost immature excitement. The smile on my face was so unfamiliar that my cheeks fought against the unusual expression. And then I’d thought . . . oh shit! Because Penny can’t text me or call me or hang out with me. Well, maybe she could handle that and be fine. But I can’t. The only way to keep from fucking up my whole life is to keep her at arm’s length. So I’d sent a teasing text back, and played off the whole exchange.
She didn’t text again last night. Which is good, I remind myself for the hundredth time because I spent last night staring at my phone, conversely willing it to ding and willing it to stay silent at the same time.
But while I personally need to keep my distance, I also need to figure out what to do about Miles Conniver’s ring. It’s out there somewhere, and his goons are going to track Penny down eventually. If they haven’t already.
Why haven’t I told her about the whole situation? I’m sure she’d understand, right? But something keeps stopping me. Maybe it’s because, for once in my life, I want to be the so-called white knight. It’s a selfish desire, but it’s there, deep in the dark recesses of my mind, especially given that protecting Penny is nearly written in my DNA after all these years. Maybe I’m worried that Penny would hear the news and march right downtown to Conniver’s office and try to talk to him directly, and I definitely don’t want that. She’d either end up a pale figure at the bottom of the river, or hell, knowing her luck (and mine), he’d fall in love with her the way everyone else does. Or maybe I’m afraid that somehow, someway, she’s going to blame me for it. Which, if she gets into trouble because of me not saying anything, is exactly what she would rightfully do.
But I can stop all those possibilities from happening by doing one thing—finding the damn ring. And action over analysis, particularly self-analysis, is always at the top of my playbook.
That thought is what gets me moving today. Penny might’ve given up on finding it, making her peace with the situation through tried-and-true wine-and-cookie therapy, but I haven’t given up. I can’t because if anything happens to Penny, I will never forgive myself. Dom won’t forgive me either.
I’m staring at Paul’s list, trying to decide which fence to hit first—literally or figuratively—when my phone rings. “Hello.”
It’s silent for long enough that I pull the phone from my ear to check the screen, expecting it to say Telemarketer or Spam Risk. But it doesn’t. It says Penny Lee. This has never happened before. Penny hasn’t called me a single time since the day we met. But she is now.
A million new possibilities run through my mind in an instant. Miles’s goons found her. She got hit by a bus. She accidentally joined a cult, or started one. She led an impromptu parade that stopped traffic for blocks. She won the lottery. She found the ring. With her, it could be literally anything.
“Penny? Are you there? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Um . . . heeeeyyy there, Griffin, old pal, chummy-chum-chum. How’re you?” she drawls out, sounding weird even for her.
“Are you drunk for real this time?”
She laughs too hard, too brightly, like what I said is super funny. Or maybe like she’s drunk at twelve thirty on a Sunday. It might be five o’clock somewhere, and there’s nothing wrong with a bottomless mimosa brunch, but Penny usually does her drinking at night, at home, something I’m thankful for because the thought of a drunk Penny in a seedy club, dancing with some dude, would have me in handcuffs before sunrise, and not in the fun way.