Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Kris skates up to Theo and claps him on the shoulder on the ice as the final seconds on the clock run down. His crystalline eyes scan the crowd behind the bench, locking on mine. My mouth goes dry. My heart stalls in my chest.
He's fierce. Radiant. And somehow, despite just winning, he still looks like he's in hell.
I know the feeling. I've been in the same boat for weeks now. Every day, it gets worse. Every day, I feel worse. I'm barely eating, barely sleeping. He's haunting me, and he won't stop. I don't know how I'm supposed to survive without him now that I know what it's like to be in his arms.
And yet that's exactly what I'm supposed to do. Survive. Fight. Pretend I'm not drowning.
I am drowning. I've fallen out of remission three times in my life. I know what it feels like. This. It feels like this. I want to curl up in his arms and cry it out, but I can't do that. He can't tell me that it's going to be okay.
He can't know the truth, especially not now. Not when they're so close to winning the Cup.
He starts across the ice toward me.
"I'll be back," I mutter to Charlotte and Laney before fleeing like a coward.
The Presidents' lounge is packed by the time I step through the front doors. I hid out in my office for longer than I intended to hide, but I couldn't force myself to go back up to the arena and smile like everything is wonderful when it's not.
I don't want to be here right now, either. But I don't really have a choice. If I skip the celebration, the guys will give me hell. I'd rather not play fifty questions right now. Especially when I feel like I do. God only knows what's liable to slip out of my mouth.
My head feels like it's stuffed full of wool. I keep trying to will the feeling away, as if it'll just stop if I ignore it long enough. But I've been here before. I know how it works. This is the closest I've ever come to complete remission, but I'm not going to make it this time, either.
I can't deny it forever, as much as I want to do exactly that.
"There you are," Wes says, materializing in front of me with a broad grin stretched across his face. "Laney thought you snuck out."
"No." I paste a smile on my face. "I had something to take care of after the game. Is everyone behaving?"
"How the fuck should I know?" He stares at me like I'm crazy. "Not my circus, not my monkeys. Off the ice, they're your problem."
I narrow my eyes at him. "You're lucky I have things to do tonight. Because I know ninety ways to kill a man, but no time to prove it."
"You can't kill me anyway. We're in the Playoffs."
I shoot him a dirty glare, letting him know what I think of that. "You're one man. There are twenty-two other active players on the roster." I pat him on the chest before sailing past him. "Do you really want Pryce to live out his Stanley Cup fantasy this year?"
I squeeze through the throng of people in the lounge, searching for Theo and Charlotte. It's hot inside the lounge, too many bodies pressed too tightly together. Loud music pours through the dimly lit space, mixing with the raucous laughter and shouted conversations happening all around me.
I fan my face, growing hotter as my head starts to pound. I pass a table loaded with greasy burgers and fries. The smell wafts toward me. My stomach churns, a wave of nausea climbing up my throat.
When did I eat last? This morning? Last night?
I can't remember.
I spot Theo and Charlotte sitting in a booth at the back of the lounge with Jonas and his wife, Jamie, and Gray and his wife, Camila. I decide I'll grab something to eat later and start in their direction.
Halfway there, Kris breaks free of the crowd a few feet ahead of me.
My heart leaps in my throat. He looks so damn good in his suit and tie. His hair is still damp from the shower and curling around his ears. He needs to cut it, but I know he won't until after they bring home the Cup or lose their shot. It's tradition. The guys never shave or cut their hair during the Playoffs. It's practically sacrilegious at this point to even suggest it.
His crystalline eyes send heatwaves through my system as he looks me over from head to toe, meticulously examining me. My nipples turn to hard points, my womb clenching. The way he watches me. God. It's like he's staring right into my freaking soul. No one ever looks at me like he does. No one ever sees me as clearly as he does.