Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 85711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85711 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Walking out of his office, I make my way back to the garage and press the key fob to find the truck. I put the address in the GPS and make my way over to the condo. It’s a four-minute drive to the condo, and I park at the same spot I did the last time. Grabbing my bag out of the back seat, I make my way to the silver door and the elevator. I slip the key into the door, and only when the door closes behind me does my head hang.
“I need a fucking shower,” I announce, walking to the guest bedroom, dumping my bag on the bed, and heading straight into the bathroom. Undressing takes me five seconds, and then my hands are against the tile in the shower, and I let the hot water run down my neck as I close my eyes.
Getting out, I grab a towel at the same time my stomach rumbles. Walking over to my bag, I grab a pair of boxers and another pair of blue jeans. After I slide those on, I slip a gray short-sleeved shirt over my head. I walk over to the kitchen and pull open the fridge, finding just bottles of water and beer.
“He was not kidding about leaving this place empty,” I say, closing the fridge door and opening the freezer to find just ice cream. “Not even pizza.” Looking around the condo, I see how luxurious it is. Erika bought this condo when she first got here, and then apparently, she hated it, so she moved to the suburbs. When Cooper divorced his first wife, he moved in here with his two daughters, and as I look around, I wonder how he did it. The whole back wall is floor-to-ceiling windows. The kitchen is white with white and gray marble. The stainless-steel appliances look like they have never been used. I have stayed here a few times over the summer, but it’s always been for a couple of days, so I never noticed how it never felt homey.
I walk back to the bedroom, slipping on socks and my running shoes. I grab my phone, keys, and a baseball hat and walk out the door. Where am I even going? I think, but I just get in the SUV and drive.
It clears my head, and when I finally look around, I notice all the turns have led me back to the same fucking place. I laugh as my phone rings, and I look down to see that it’s Dylan. “Yo,” I answer. Dylan and I are best friends and have been since we were eight, and my uncle Justin adopted him when he fell in love with Dylan’s mom.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the black sheep of the family,” he teases, and I laugh, shaking my head.
“You know me,” I say, joking. “Always the rebel.” He laughs, knowing that between us, he’s more of a rebel than I am. To be honest, before this shit, I was just another hockey player. My stats were good. I mean, not as good as Dylan’s, but they were decent.
We were drafted the same year. He went first; I went third. I was drafted by Columbus and signed a three-year entry-level contract. I was invited to camp but didn’t start out on the team right away. I waited for my turn, and in December, someone got hurt, and I got my shot to play with the big boys. On my second shift on the ice, I scored my first-ever goal, and it made it sweeter that it was against Dylan, who just glared at me when I chirped him. It took me two months to score my first-ever hat trick, and man, what a fucking night that turned out to be. It was hands down one of the best nights of my life. Four years later, we made it to the playoffs, and I scored another hat trick, pushing us to game seven, where we lost. It’s during that time shit went down the tubes.
“You know why I’m so happy,” he says. I can hear that he’s walking, and I wonder if he’s walking somewhere or just training. “Because no matter what I do this year, I’m always going to have this to throw on the table.” He laughs a big belly laugh. “If I get suspended, all I have to say is, but did I get benched and then traded?”
“Like you would get suspended,” I puff out. “Not the clean-cut Dylan Stone. Heaven forbid the hockey gods make you a bad boy.” I laugh. Out of the two of us, he is the better player. He is hands down one of the best hockey players on the ice past and present.
“Fuck you,” he says, laughing. “Where are you?”