Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“We wouldn’t miss it,” I assure him, which is the truth. I’m excited about checking out a live hockey game while watching Tacker out on the ice. I just know it’s going to be something special to see.
“All right then,” he says, but he makes no move to get in his truck. Just stands there and fidgets.
If I don’t say something to help him on his way, I’ll probably be lulled into just staring right back at him.
So I hold my hand up in a farewell as I take a few steps back. “Safe travels. Play your ass off.”
Grinning, Tacker climbs into his truck. I turn my back on him to head into the barn, listening to the rumble of his engine as he starts it. Long after the sound recedes down the drive, thoughts of Tacker swirl through my mind.
CHAPTER 16
Tacker
I wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotion that hit me when I stepped out onto the ice for warmups half an hour ago. Now with the game about to start, my place secured back on the first line at center ice, I’m actually worried my legs might give way. They went a little jiggly as it hit me all at once.
I was back in the game.
What was my sole reason for living after the crash… and the one thing that had kept me going until I metaphorically crashed again.
Nora had texted a few hours ago as we were on our way from the team hotel to the arena. We’re playing the Seattle Storm, who happen to be sitting near the bottom of the standings. While players can never take any game for granted, it does help my nerves that we’re playing one of the lower-ranked teams for my return debut.
Nora’s text helped. It simply said, Enjoy the moment.
She’s talking about right now—with my nerves buzzing and my adrenaline surging. The scream of fans and the energy pouring off my teammates.
My legs strengthen, and my backbone locks.
I’m ready, and I fucking love it.
The ref moves into the circle, right up to where Bishop faces off against his opponent for the face-off. His eyes cut to me briefly, and he winks.
Not a facial muscle of mine moves in response. I’m fucking ready to play.
For a man wearing a cast on a wrist that was fractured five weeks ago and who had only been back at practice for two weeks, I played a damn good game. My biggest accomplishment is in not getting in a fight.
As a center, I’m a shooter, not a fighter. That means I’m relied on to score, not to play defense or get tough with other players. My body is too valuable to mess it up in a slugfest, so I’m rarely enticed into a fight.
But that didn’t stop the Storm players from trying to bait me. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up, me… the man with a cast.
While league regulations allow players to wear casts in a game, we are absolutely forbidden from fighting with one. As such, I stepped out onto the ice tonight expecting players to push me to my limits. Most opposing players would not be sad to see me suspended again.
I kept my cool all night.
I played well, even if not stellar, and that met everyone’s expectations for the evening. I had one assist and a severely aching wrist as the final moments of the game tick down.
There’s thirty-seven seconds left on the clock, and the Storm is down 2-0. They have nothing to lose, so they pull their goalie once they gain possession of the puck. My line just stepped out, and our legs are fresh as we defend.
Back and forth, they pass the puck, looking for the long shot or a quick dump inside for a goal. My back is to Legend as I keep myself facing the action, letting my stick play loose.
They make their move as the crowd’s screams escalate in tune to the clock ticking closer to zero. With a sharp flick of the wrist, the puck makes it past Dax to the inside. Players crash the net, Aaron poke checks, and the biscuit shoots out toward me.
Bishop has broken loose and I tap it to him, just as he crosses into the neutral zone. I follow, my eyes darting up to the clock to note seven seconds left.
Bishop carries the puck across the blue line, the empty net right in front of him.
“Tacker,” he calls. To my surprise, he shoots it over to me.
It’s an easy flick of my wrist, a snap of my stick blade, and the puck easily glides in for a goal. The fucker didn’t need to give me that point, but I’m not surprised he did. My team as a whole has gone way out of their way to make sure my return has been the stuff dreams are made of.