Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“I can do that.”
“And one more question. I want you to think about it while you’re skating and answer after.” She pressed her lips into a tight line and sucked in a breath. “And it’s kind of mean.”
“Ask it. It can’t be that bad.” There was nothing she could ask that I hadn’t answered in some interview or another. I pushed another puck onto my stick and looked over at her.
“Why do you keep playing hockey if you hate it so much?”
My head reared back like she’d hit me. “I’m sorry?”
“Why do you keep playing hockey if you hate it?” she repeated.
“I don’t hate it,” I answered, immediately defensive.
“Skate, then answer.”
My teeth grinding, I started toward the goal, skating slow enough that once I reached the blue line, Evie could keep up, her camera clicking as she took picture after picture.
I didn’t fucking hate hockey. I was a hockey god. I was born on skates.
I fired the puck, and my wrist twitched, but I compensated, sending the puck into the net for the first time all night.
Spinning, I startled Evie, and she slipped, going over backward. I reached out and caught her, steadying her on her skates with my hands on her upper arms. “I don’t hate hockey,” I growled.
“Right,” she whispered.
“I am the leading point scorer on the Reapers, even with the last month going to complete shit. I’m part of the ice when I’m on it. I had a full ride to a D1 school, and was a first-round draft pick when I went pro.” My gaze narrowed.
“Those are your stats,” she whispered. “Not how you feel about it.”
I let go of her arms and skated away. “Take the tequila upstairs with you. I’ll be up in a minute.”
“I’m sorry. I think I’ve had just enough tequila to say stupid stuff and not nearly enough to excuse it.” Her face fell, and I hated myself for it, but she went.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll meet you upstairs.”
I completed my routine, putting everything away in the rink and running the Zam. There was nothing quite as satisfying as seeing the pale, scratched-up ice turn to liquid glass with each pass I drove, as if resurfacing the ice made the whole place new again. But tonight that peace was fractured by the question Evie had asked and the thoughts that wouldn’t stop trying to answer it.
It had been twenty minutes by the time I’d tugged my shirt back on and went upstairs.
Evie sat on one of the stools, two more shots poured on the island in front of her. “Have a seat.” She patted the granite.
I took the stool next to hers. “Sorry I snapped at you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” The tequila had loosened up my tongue enough to admit it. “And I’m sorry about the tequila, too. You don’t have to drink it.”
“I don’t do anything I don’t want to,” she assured me, taking a shot glass between her thumb and forefinger. “And you don’t have to answer the question.”
I glanced between Evie and the bottle on the counter. “And this answer isn’t going in your project?”
Her eyebrows rose. “None of it is. Just your expression. I would never, ever use your answers like that. It would be like telling your secrets.”
“So you’re saying you only want me for my body.”
She grinned. “It’s a hell of a body.”
“Why, Evangeline, you’re going to make me blush.” I reached for the shot and threw it back in one motion. She did the same, and our glasses clinked on the granite as we set them down. “I don’t hate it,” I said, my tone dropping. “But I don’t love it, either. Not the way the other guys do. Yeah, I love the feeling when we win, and the roar of the crowd is straight up adrenaline in my blood, but…” I shook my head, searching for the right words. “I never had a choice. It was never a question of if I would play, or even if I would go pro. Dad had me in skates before I was old enough to walk. David and I weren’t individuals, we were just extensions of Dad.”
She leaned her elbow on the island and cradled the side of her face in her hand, her eyes soft and accepting as she listened.
“If we lost, it was him losing. If we won, it was him winning. If we made the shot, it was because he’d taught us how to do it, and if we missed it, then it was because we weren’t practicing hard enough. Then David got hurt, and all of those expectations weren’t split between the two of us anymore. It was all on me. Hockey is like breathing to me. It just…is, and if it stopped, then I wouldn’t exist.”
“You would,” she whispered.
“You wouldn’t have my name on your back,” I teased.