Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 53034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
I shrug. “I can’t help it if you actually are helpful and useful. If you had a fashion design degree, there wouldn’t be much you could do here.”
One corner of her mouth tilts up in a smile. “Sure. Guess I have to do something, might as well be this.”
“Better than fart yoga,” I quip.
“Much.”
I clear my throat, my expression turning serious. “Hey, I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but Kyle Macintire is a piece of shit and you’re much better off without him.”
At the mention of his name, she wilts. Her confidence and lightness are gone.
Good one, Beaumont. You ruined a nice moment.
“You’re right—I don’t want to talk about it.”
She turns and leaves the room and I sigh heavily, wishing I hadn’t said anything about Kyle. I fucked up yet again. Just like I keep fucking up in games.
Even at twenty-seven years old, living my dream of playing in the big league, I don’t have my shit together. Not even close.
Chapter Five
Talia
* * *
Leo slams a Tampa player into the boards so hard I can feel the vibrations. They’re battling for control of the puck, shoving and elbowing each other until Leo manages to hook it with his stick and slide it to Bash.
It’s been a long time since I watched a game from a glass seat—the front row. I’m so close I can see the sweat on players’ faces. I don’t know how my dad managed to snag me this seat at the last minute at a visiting team’s arena. He may have paid a bundle for it.
My plan was to hide out in the locker room to play Tetris and maybe read a book during the game. I miss my couch back home, where I could hibernate beneath a blanket and truly be alone.
It’s only the first day of this road trip and I’m already emotionally worn down. I’m not going to pout over my dad making me come; I know he’s trying to help me. Four days of being surrounded by a hockey team twenty hours a day isn’t it, though.
Staying with him is temporary. I have to find a job as far away from San Francisco as I can get. One of the reasons I rarely went out after the breakup was my fear of running into Kyle and Audra.
I want to be over it. I want to smile and laugh and live a full life where I don’t even think about either of them, ever. Hell, I’d settle for being able to pretend I was living a full life.
I can’t, though. Even after months of therapy and seclusion, I still feel like a frayed thread pulled taut, on the edge of snapping. I’m angry. Being betrayed by my sister and my fiancé, the two most important people in my life, cut deep.
Mostly though, I’m hurt. I could never say it out loud, but it’s the truth.
The crowd roars to life as Lucien drops his gloves to fight Dimitri Volkov, Tampa’s enforcer. Volkov is a rat who slashes when the refs aren’t looking. He’s paid a bundle in fines for headhunting.
Lucien wastes no time, quickly throwing a hard right hook that rocks Volkov. The fans get even louder, and Volkov jabs Lucien so hard I cringe. My exercise physiology training changed my views on hockey fighting. As the daughter of a coach and former player, I used to cheer for them.
Now that I know how the brain responds to trauma, I know there’s nothing to applaud. But it’s part of the game, and Lucien seems to relish it. He’s grinning at Volkov as they trade a few more hits before Volkov slides and falls to the ice, taking Lucien with him.
The refs break them up, and both men get sent to their respective penalty boxes. Lucien chirps at Volkov as a ref leads him by the elbow to his box. He looks like he’s on the verge of laughter.
Volkov, on the other hand, looks ready to commit murder. A dark cloud covers his expression.
Tampa fans pound on the sides and back of Lucien’s box with their fists and palms, trying to get a rise out of him. He smiles and waves at them like a queen greeting her subjects, which only eggs them on.
I can’t help smiling. He’s damn good at what he does, which is firing up opposing teams so they’ll focus on him instead of the Crush’s offensive lines.
It’s working. Carter quickly scores a goal, bringing the score up to 3–0. Isaac’s fart yoga must be helping him, because he’s chasing a shutout. From the talk I overheard in the locker room earlier, he needs the boost a shutout would give him.
“Miss Turner? May I get you anything?” an arena attendant asks me.
VIP service is part of sitting here, and I’ve already had popcorn and a glass of wine. I shake my head and smile at the attendant, reaching into my bag for a tip since the game is almost over.