Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Hazel’s gaze darkens with suspicion. “Where did you get that?”
I set my jaw. I don’t appreciate the not-so-veiled accusation. “If you think I stole it, relax. Jake loaned it to me the other day. I was nervous about something and he said it would bring me good luck.” I have to smile, because something good did come out of it. Dad and I got our fresh start, after all. “Anyway, I forgot to return it, and I drove all the way here, so…” I thrust out my hand. “Could you please give this to him when he gets here?”
“Jake let you borrow his good-luck charm.” Her tone has a dull note to it.
“Yes.” I’m starting to get annoyed. And I’m still holding my arm out like a moron. “Look, I get that you don’t like me—for no good reason, by the way. You don’t even know me. But I care about Jake, same as you. This—” I wave the bracelet at her. “—is important to him. He’ll hate me forever if this bracelet isn’t on his wrist when the puck drops. So can you please just take it already?”
After a moment of hesitation, Hazel accepts the bracelet. She slips it around her wrist and says, “I’ll make sure he gets it.”
39
Jake
I’m alone in the locker room, me versus my thoughts. Voices echo beyond the door, laughter and chatter and the general hum of activity, but I’m good at blocking all of it out. My ritual of silence doesn’t require actual silence. I just need to quiet my brain. Meditate on what needs to be done.
Coach gave me permission to make my own way to Worcester today. It’s unheard of, but I think my less-than-stellar performance at practice these last three days genuinely shook him up. He’s worried I might lose us this game. And he’s right to worry. My concentration is shot. Breaking up with Brenna wrecked me.
I made a mistake.
I made a mistake, and I knew it the moment she left my apartment. Ending it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I acted out of fear, not logic, and it backfired on me, because now my head is even further away from where it’s supposed to be.
It’s ironic. All that bullshit I spewed about needing to rid myself of distractions—which was a total lie to begin with—resulted in creating an even bigger disruption in my brain. Brenna wasn’t a distraction, but this breakup sure as hell is.
So Coach gave me a pass and I drove to Worcester on my own. I found a diner and fueled up with a big, greasy breakfast. At some point I realized I forgot my phone at home, but I don’t need it. Nothing is allowed to exist today beyond this one game. We win this, we progress to the Frozen Four. It’s enough pressure to make a weaker man choke, but I’m not that man. I might’ve been weak about my relationship with Brenna, but I’m not weak about hockey. Never have been, never will be.
Loud footsteps thud out in the hall. For a second I think the rest of the team has arrived early, until I hear evidence of a scuffle. More footsteps, a thump, and an outraged male shout.
“I told you, you can’t go in there!”
“We just need a minute,” someone insists. “Seriously, what the hell do you think we’re gonna do in there? Murder the guy?”
I don’t recognize the second voice. I assume the first one is security.
“Sorry, not happening, kid. I can’t let you in there.”
“Come on, Hollis,” urges a third voice. “We’ll track him down later.”
Hollis? As in Mike Hollis?
I jump up from the bench and sprint to the door. “Wait,” I say, flinging it open. “It’s cool. I know them.”
The security guard’s hawk-like gaze sweeps over me. “Nobody else is supposed to be in here.”
“We’ll keep it quick,” I assure him. “Two minutes, tops.”
He steps aside.
A few seconds later, I’m in the locker room with the last two people I expected to see today. Mike Hollis has his arms crossed tight to his broad chest. Colin Fitzgerald is more relaxed, with his arms at his sides. He’s wearing a V-neck sweater with the sleeves rolled up, and there’s ink peeking out from under his collar and his cuffs. Dude’s totally tatted up, I realize.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask the Briar players.
“The goon told us,” Hollis says.
“The goon?”
“Weston,” Fitzgerald supplies, grinning. “My girlfriend Summer texted him.”
“Ah.”
“Are we done with the small talk?” Hollis asks politely.
I fight a laugh. I wonder if they’re going for a good cop, bad cop approach. “Sure, I guess we’re done.” I make a gracious gesture toward him. “Why are you here?”
“Because we wanted to beat some sense into you.”
“Please don’t we this,” Fitzgerald objects. “I just drove you here.”