Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
She’s not throwing me under the bus exactly, but she’s driving it up onto the sidewalk while I sit idly unaware on the bus stop bench. Underneath the table, I grind my toe into Hope’s foot punishingly, but she barely reacts. All I get is a side-eye as she fights back the laugh she’s swallowing down.
“Are you dating someone?” Dad asks me, suddenly deeply invested in the whole conversation.
I shake my head, turning the glare I was shooting at my sister into something kinder when I look to Dad. “No, I’m not. Like Mom said, I’m way too busy with work.”
“Yeah, and she only ever sees hockey guys,” Hope adds sadly. “And they’re all ugly, out of shape dudes who can’t commit to anything, not even an athlete’s foot ointment. Ew.”
I’m gonna kill her. Smother her, quick and quiet, with a pillow over her face while she sleeps.
Shit. Ben would probably stop me.
Fine. I’ll figure out another way. It’ll probably be messier, but she deserves it at this point. I fought off the wolves for her when she ditched everyone to hide away with Ben, and this is how she’s repaying me?
Shep, thinking the dig is about him, grumbles, “Hey! I’m not out of shape, and if I can commit to the daily workouts Coach has us doing, I could commit to someone I care about.”
“You forgot ugly,” Ben reminds him.
Shepherd flashes an arrogant grin, running a hand over his own chiseled jawline. “Figured that one obviously didn’t apply to me.”
Somehow, the focus stays on Shepherd and eventually, the Moose’s season, and never returns to the question of whether I’m dating anyone. Thank goodness!
As we clear the table, I bump my hip into Hope’s to grab her attention. “What the hell was that? ‘Oh, I can keep a secret,’” I mime, throwing my voice high.
She smirks, whispering back, “I did keep your secret. But I also planted a seed that . . . one, you’ll eventually date.” She holds up one finger, and then another. “And two, you do only hang out with hockey players. So once you figure your shit out with Dickton, and tell Mom and Dad, it won’t be such a shock.”
Too impressed with her logic, and cringing at that awful nickname, I don’t correct her assumption that I’ll be figuring out anything with or without Dalton, mostly because I’m still mad at him.
“What about Shep?” I ask.
She snorts, shaking her head as she glances out at the living room where Shep’s once again trying to teach Ben about hockey, despite him not giving a shit about it. “Oh, that’s on you. It’s gonna be a bloodbath. The good news is . . . I think it’ll mostly be aimed at Dalton, not you.”
She makes that sound like it’s a good thing.
And like she was doing me a favor by running that bus up on the sidewalk to scare me.
Chapter 16
Dalton
I’ve called. I’ve texted. I’ve sent memes. I’ve left voicemails.
Joy hasn’t responded to a single one since I walked out of her apartment after the festival.
The only reason I know she’s okay is because when we came back from our holiday break, and the guys talked about what they’d done over the long week, I made sure to ask Shepherd how his Thanksgiving went. Apparently, their dinner was great, other than a little baby pressure for Hope and her husband, but Shepherd laughingly boasted that he’d escaped mostly unscathed.
As for Joy? He barely mentioned her. But even hearing that she was there soothed the knot of fear in my gut. She’s okay.
Except she’s still not answering. And we have a game tomorrow.
I get that she’s mad at me, but she won’t fuck over the team, will she? She knows I need her to play my best.
I bang my head against the headboard and dial her number again . . .
It goes straight to voicemail.
“Joy, answer the fucking phone. We play the Devildogs tomorrow, and they’re unbeaten so far this season. I need . . . I need . . .” I sigh and say the one thing that comes to mind, “You.”
She doesn’t call me back.
I try to put it out of my mind and do the rest of my pregame rituals. I drink half my 5-hour energy, do my stretches and warm-ups, meditate and visualize, and listen to my playlist. I tap the goal four times on the left and three times on the right, then once on the top bar with my helmet.
We still fucking lose. Four to two, which would have been worse if it wasn’t for Shep’s aggressive offense keeping the Devildogs on their heels for the entire third period.
I’m slamming my gear around as I take it off when Shepherd comes up behind me. “Damn, man. You good?”
“No,” I bark. “I’m not fucking good. That was a shit show out there.”