Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“How’s Sophie?” he asks as he pulls the goals into position.
“Great,” I smile as I head over and grab a few more pucks out of the bucket by the gate and drop them to the ice. “She’s starting to get uncomfortable, but she’s too fucking stubborn to admit it.”
He lets out a sympathetic laugh, knowing all too well what I’m going through after his wife recently gave birth to their fourth baby girl. “Just wait a few more months. You won’t stop hearing about it.”
I grin at his comment. Most guys can’t stand it when their women bitch and complain about shit, but I love it. It gives me a chance to fix it, which makes her see me as her hero, and that always comes with benefits. Besides, if she’s still complaining to me, that means she still cares. A woman who doesn’t bitch to her man is a woman who no longer gives a shit. “I can’t wait,” I smirk.
Coach Larsden shakes his head and leaves me to concentrate on my training. I get to work, and one by one, the other guys show up and join me on the ice. Since the season hasn’t started, the boys don’t have to be logging as many hours, but I’m glad they’re here. It always pays to push ourselves, to better the team.
This season we’re defending our title and I couldn’t love a game more. This shit is different from high school or college hockey. The games get harder and faster and the skill I’ve seen out on the ice is incredible. No matter how good I think I am, there’s always going to be someone better, someone to motivate me to keep going. But this season, I'm at my best. It doesn’t get better than this.
Miller cuts past me and being the smartass he is, steals the puck right out from under my skates. He smirks as he flies by, calling me a “Pussy-whipped bitch,” as he goes, but the fucker isn’t going to live it down.
I take off like a bull after him, raging down the ice like lightning. He glances over his shoulder to laugh and smirk like a fucking idiot, thinking he’s got the best of me, and I have to grin as his eyes widen in shock. He didn’t expect me to come after him, but now that I’ve started . . . there’s no way in hell I’m stopping.
“Ahh, fuck.” Miller pushes forward, and I cut across the ice, recognizing his tells. After all, I’ve been skating with the guy for over eight years. Back in college, we were known as the Dream Team. Hell, some people still call us that. Miller was the big playboy on campus, the king of the fucking ice, but right now, he’s a sleep-deprived new father who just messed with the wrong fucking guy. He’s on my ice now.
He flies around the back of the net, and I distantly notice a few of the guys move away, knowing if they get between us, their asses are going to get laid out. I cut across the front of the net and end up right in front of him.
Miller attempts some of his fancy-ass footwork, but I come at him with the kind of brute force he simply can’t match. They don’t call me Tank for no reason. As he gets closer, I see the look in his eyes. He thinks he’s got this in the bag. He thinks he’s got me.
My gaze levels on the puck, and for just a second, I let him think he’s got me, let him put his guard down. In a split-second movement, my stick cuts out in front of him and scoops up the puck like fucking magic. He continues past me, enjoying his win far too much to notice he no longer possesses the puck. A mistake made by someone whose head clearly isn’t in the game yet. I can’t even blame him. If I spent my weekend scrubbing baby shit off my walls, my head wouldn’t be in the game either.
I shoot around and fly up the other side of the rink, and after realizing he’s got to step it up, Miller takes off. I shoot the puck forward and watch as it flies through the air in a beautiful arc, slamming into the back of the net.
“Fuck, dude,” Miller pants, coming to a stop beside me. “You’ve picked up speed.”
“Nah, you lost it when you left your balls back there,” I laugh, pointing out the patch of ice where I took the puck from him, which is when I notice some of the younger guys applauding my efforts. Besting the great Miller Cain isn’t an easy feat. It’s one they could only dream about. There’s only a handful that could achieve it.