Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
He doesn't let me go, not once. His hand is warm on the small of my back, anchoring me to him like I'm liable to drift away.
Maybe I am.
I've never felt so out of place before.
A pack of puck bunnies converging around the dessert table doesn't help. They form a wall of hair extensions and eyelash glue, dressed in designer brands and four-inch heels as they sip festive cocktails and shoot me smiles full of gritted teeth and disapproval. They're playing nice, in that cutthroat, merciless way that makes me want to break out in hives.
"You hungry?" Trent whispers when he notices me glancing toward the table, his fingers stroking my side.
"Um…" I sneak another peek at the table, my stomach churning. But before I can tell him that I'd rather starve than wade into those bunny-infested trenches, he's already leading me in that direction.
The bunnies part like the Red Sea around us. One tries to say something to Trent, but he doesn't even look in her direction.
"This looks way better than hospital Jello," he murmurs to me, loading up a plate with a little bit of everything. "But I still wish it were your fudge, Sunshine."
A puck bunny snorts loudly into her drink.
I just smile and keep loading my own plate. I kind of hope she chokes on her jealousy. And maybe that makes me terrible, but it doesn't matter how much they preen and bat their fake lashes at him. He'll never want them. They don't even know the first thing about him.
I do. Little by little over the last few months, he's opened up to me. He's shared pieces of his world. I know how he thinks and what makes him laugh. I know what he loves and what annoys the hell out of him. I know that hockey is his life, and his family means everything to him.
And I know that he'd never demand that a single one of these women sit at his side in the ER while he's in a hospital gown, covered in hives, miserable and vulnerable. He'd never guilt them into staying the night with him. Frankly, he never pays them any attention at all because they don't even exist to him. But he faked an injury for weeks just to spend time with me.
Something about that makes me feel better, like the ground is solidifying beneath my feet a little bit.
He grabs a pair of champagne glasses from a passing waiter and leads me toward a less crowded corner of the house while they glare daggers at our retreating backs.
The kitchen is occupied by several of the older players and their kids, who are building a snowman out of Rice Krispies and marshmallow fluff. One of the kids is eating the carrot nose, while a toddler in a red turtleneck licks the counter with terrifying focus.
Trent lifts me up onto a barstool so we're eye-level, then pulls up right beside me, his thigh pressing into mine.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice low.
"Yeah," I say, nodding. "It's just…a lot."
He leans in, his voice barely above a growl. "Want me to call a code red and fake a medical emergency? I can pretend I'm dying again. I have recent experience, you know."
"Please don't," I mutter, but the fact that he would makes me smile, which seems to make him happy.
"Don't stress," he says. "Nobody's judging you. They're all just glad you're here."
I wish I could believe him. But I can feel the eyes on me, every single one of them weighing me up and down, and most deciding that I just don't belong at his side. The puck bunnies literally want to claw my eyes out right now.
His teammates don't look at us the same way, but they do look. Every time one of them passes by, they shoot Trent a look—sometimes approving, sometimes curious, but there's always a look.
I'm torn between running and sticking around to see what happens if I actually do start screaming. If I make it to the end of the night without vomiting from nerves, I'm awarding myself a gold star. And maybe a giant glass of wine.
After spending a few minutes in the kitchen while Trent inhales cookies at light speed and I pick at a finger sandwich, we drift from room to room, nibbling at more snacks and making small talk.
I try to keep up, but the volume is set to stadium at full capacity. Every time someone talks to me, I have to guess at least half of what they're saying. Like right now. Either the North Pole was burned down with a flamethrower, or Brock Anderson wishes he had a flamethrower. I'm not entirely sure.
I'm ready to give up guessing when Trent presses a glass of spiked cocoa into my hands. "Drink up," he orders, then wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into him. "They're doing white elephant in the den, and you're going to need it. It'll be a bloodbath."