Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
“Gotcha.” I pull over so I’m not in the middle of the road.
She unbuckles her seat belt. “Thanks again for the ride, both ways. And the invitation to play.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“Had to get my skate back.” She reaches for the door handle.
“Before you go, you think I could get your number? Or I can give you mine? In case you want to come play with us again. Or you change your mind about that ice cream.”
Her fingers go to her lips, like she’s conflicted.
“You had fun tonight, didn’t you?” I ask.
She releases a long breath and nods. “Yeah. I had fun. A lot of fun.”
“So why you over there sitting on the fence, Snowflake?”
She drops her head and rubs the space between her eyes, but she’s smiling.
I don’t know how to read her. Not yet. “I believe everything happens for a reason—the good, the bad, and mundane. There’s always a purpose,” I tell her. “Think about all the ways we’re connected already. You play hockey, you work with Rose, you volunteer with my bestie, you and my cousin’s girlfriend like the same books.”
She side-eyes me. “The only hockey books I read are biographies.”
“Whatever. Not the point.” I motion between us. “We’re destined to know each other. I like you. I think you’re fucking gorgeous. I want your digits so I can tell you that in awkward text messages.”
She laughs, and it’s the sound of victory. “Fuck it. Yeah. You can give me your number.” She passes over her phone, and I key in my number, then send myself a text.
My phone dings in my pocket.
“And now I have yours.” I need to mine Lovey and Rose for info. Winter is definitely guarded.
“Well-played.” She reaches for the door handle, and I do the same.
She heads for the trunk while I unfasten her bike from the roof rack. I’ve just set it on the ground when headlights appear in the driveway I’m parked across from. I raise my hand to shield my eyes.
“Fuck,” Winter mutters.
Gravel crunches as the car pulls onto the road. The window descends, and a plume of smoke furls into the air. It’s an old car, and based on the rumble of the engine, it’s struggling to do its job. It’s too dark to make out much of the figure behind the wheel until a crack of lightning illuminates him.
He looks tired, like life is wearing him down. And angry, like everything pisses him off.
“Who’s this?” He tips his chin at me but doesn’t look my way. “I thought you said you were playing hockey.”
“I was. This is BJ. His dad coaches at the new arena.”
He looks me over, eyes narrowed and assessing, especially as he takes in my sleeve of tattoos. “Is that right?”
“BJ, this is my dad, Clayton Marks.” Her tight smile wavers.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Marks.” I hold out my hand, but he just looks at it, returning his attention to Winter.
“You get oil and a pack of smokes like I told you?”
She grimaces, and her shoulders tense. “I didn’t have my debit card, and I forgot to bring cash with me.”
It’s the third time I’ve heard her say that. It’s starting to sound like a script.
Her dad scoffs and flicks ash on the ground at her feet. “Of course you didn’t.” He mumbles something I don’t catch that makes her flinch. Then he drives away, leaving us standing in exhaust fumes and dust.
It all clicks into place.
The dull skates, the no-debit-card-and-no-cash mantra, biking to the arena, the hockey bag with a missing wheel and a hole in it, saying no to the diner after, wanting me to drop her off at the end of her driveway, Lovey knowing her from the foodbank, Logan asking for clarification about that, and now meeting this dickbag of a father who treats her like garbage.
Winter doesn’t have it easy.
And I’m over here with my retired-NHL-player dad, driving around in a flashy Jeep, never worrying about money. It seems like maybe she is. Some of the places around here are still the original cabins, not fancy new builds.
She turns to me on a resigned sigh. “I can hear your gears turning, and you’ll find out eventually because this whole town is six degrees of separation.” She shoulders her hockey bag and steps back, preparing for her exit. “My family’s financial situation sucks a bag of dicks. I don’t volunteer with Lovey. I use the foodbank when things get tight between paychecks. I hate when people feel sorry for me or treat me differently when they find out. It fucking sucks. And not for any of the reasons you probably think. Or maybe for all the reasons you probably think.” She tips her chin up as the first drops of rain fall and another bolt of lightning streaks across the sky.