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)
I throw my gloves and shout, “Who’s tired now, fuck stick? Come on. Get up, Jinx.”
Jenkins hates that nickname, and he heaves himself up, throwing his gloves too. He’s not their enforcer, he doesn’t normally fight, but in a blink, we’re going at it. I need this to happen faster, so I throw one straight for his temple, knowing it’ll get me the five for fighting that I want.
Whistles scream by my ear, and I push Jenkins away, looking expectantly to the ref. “Major penalty, five minutes.”
Perfect.
I don’t bother glaring at Jenkins. He had nothing to do with that fight and was just the unlucky target closest that’d I could hit and get off the ice. As a ref escorts me to the penalty box, my eyes stay locked on Penny. I jerk my head, telling her to come here.
Is that allowed? No. Talking to players in the sin bin will get us both in trouble. But she ducks down and gets as close as she can.
Go to the locker room. Get out of here before they see you. I mouth the words and point down the tunnel back toward the locker room, where there is security that will keep the goons away from her.
She shakes her head, her brow furrowed as she looks around like I don’t know it’s the middle of a game. “I can’t leave.”
The fuck she can’t.
But she doesn’t know what she’s up against. For everything I told her today, I stupidly still haven’t told her that the guys who’re after that ring work for Miles Conniver. She doesn’t understand the danger.
“You good, Honey?” the box attendant asks.
No. I’m not. I’m about to do the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Which tracks because, of course, it’s Penny driving me to madness.
I stand, dropping my stick, gloves, and helmet before grabbing the top of the plexiglass wall that surrounds the penalty box and bench area to vault myself up and over. The crowd closest to the box reacts instantly, cheering and saying, “Whoa.” But they don’t matter. Only Penny does.
Her eyes widen as I come barreling toward her, my skates clattering on the concrete. Grabbing her arm, I push her. “Come on. You have to get out of here.”
“Griffin,” she argues over me.
I don’t have time for this. My five minutes is going to be up soon, and I have to be ready. The only way to do that is to have Penny somewhere safe.
So I scoop her up, throwing her over my shoulder. My gear is hard plastic and probably poking her, but there’s no time for comfort. Besides, she’s kicking her feet and slapping at my back anyway, so I don’t think she’s looking for a cushy first-class-level ride.
“Put me down!” Her cry echoes through the tunnel, but when I start jogging down the padded floor toward the locker room, it changes to an angrier, “Don’t drop me!” as she grips around my waist, hanging on for dear life.
At the locker room’s door, I lower Penny to the ground and lock eyes with the security guard standing there. “Tim, nobody gets in other than Hawks. And don’t let her out either.”
“What?” he asks, confusion marring his usually jovial face. He’s a retired cop, but he’s still got the instincts in there somewhere.
“The fuck?” Penny finishes, slapping at me.
And though I can’t feel it through my padding, I whirl on her, grabbing her hands to stop her. “Penelope. They’re looking for you and they’re here. That means they know you’re a Hawkette.”
Her face goes slack as the blood drains. “I saw them at the post office today. They were trying to get my address, but I don’t think they did.”
Holy shit! She didn’t tell me that!
Like you didn’t tell her about Miles?
“Stay here,” I order. Thankfully, she nods her agreement. I press a quick kiss to her lips, give Tim a glare of don’t fuck this up, and tear off back down the tunnel toward the ice.
I hop over the wall and back into the penalty box with half the goddamn bench and arena looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which makes sense, because I have. You don’t leave in the middle of the game unless you’re forced to or sports med takes you out. “Ahhh . . . your five’s up,” the attendant says, opening the gate. Guess they decided not to penalize me again.
I hit the ice like a demon-possessed monster, ignoring Coach as he screams for me to rotate off the fucking ice, goddamn it. I don’t have anger filling me now. It’s cold dread mixed with hot fear, and the combination isn’t something warm and toasty but rather an explosive need to fuck shit up. And since I can’t go into the crowd and attack the goons, the Torches will have to do.