Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Guilt makes my knees wobble. “I’m playing hockey,” I snap. “It’s called a career. One that doesn’t let me jet off to Chicago whenever I feel like it.”
Her eyes blaze. “And you think I don’t have a career too? You’re not all that special, Atlas. Meanwhile, I’m doing the best I can to make sure Gray has dignity in his last few weeks.”
I stare at her, seething, because she’s right. She knows him in ways I can’t anymore—day to day, hour to hour. But I’ve known him my whole life, and that should mean something.
“I’ve known him since we were kids,” I bite out. “Don’t act like you’ve cornered the market on loving him.”
Her chin lifts, her voice trembling with fury. “Knowing someone and being here for them are not the same thing. You may have history, Atlas, but I’m the one who’s been holding his hand while he fades. You couldn’t possibly understand.”
The words slice deep, sharper because they’re true, and guilt sweeps through me hotter than ever.
I drag a hand down my face. “Gray fell asleep, so I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back when he wakes up.”
I don’t wait for her answer. I grab my jacket off the chair and step into the hallway. My chest feels like it’s going to split open, grief and anger tangled so tight I can’t tell them apart.
Behind me, the door shuts with a soft click, but I can still feel her fury like static in the air.
CHAPTER 1
Atlas
The New York Phantoms are swarming our zone, desperate to break the tie late in the second. Their winger barrels down the boards, puck on his stick like he’s about to be the hero of the night.
Not on my watch.
I lower my shoulder and slam into him, sending him sprawling against the glass. The puck pops free, and I dig it out with my stick blade, adrenaline humming as the crowd explodes in disbelief. The angry boos from the Phantom fans calling for a penalty bounce off me.
“Middle!” my right-winger, North Paquette, shouts from the side, already taking off.
I grin, teeth bared behind my mouthguard, and fire the puck up the boards. It glides right to him, clean as a wrapped gift. He catches it, cuts hard toward the slot, then whips it across to our center, Foster McInnis. He snaps it back to me as I trail the play, wide open and not a soul around.
One-timer. Low and hard.
The puck hammers into the net before the goalie can blink.
The goal horn blares and the red light burns bright. The hometown arena falls silent and I pump my fist in victory at the shocked quiet. My line mates converge on me in a rush, all blades and helmets and gloves slapping against me.
North is first, smashing his helmet into mine so hard I see stars. “That’s the Karolak cannon, baby!” he hollers, grinning like a madman. “Goalie’s gonna be seeing pucks in his nightmares tonight.”
Foster is right behind him, stick cracking against my ass. “Hell, even you couldn’t miss that one, K. My pass was so perfect, Stevie Wonder could’ve buried it.”
I bark out a laugh, cocky and loud. “The assist was almost as perfect as the goal.”
He grins back at me. “Almost.”
Camden, one of my defensemen, skates up and grabs me in a bear hug, nearly lifting me off my skates. “That was a beauty, my man!”
“Beauty?” I shoot back, grinning wide enough to split my face. “Nah, that was art. Somebody frame it.”
They howl with laughter, shoving at me, sticks banging against shin pads as we pile together before the ref herds us toward the bench.
I soak it in, arms up, strutting a little as I skate the line of fist bumps from my teammates. A proud nod from Coach West. A handful of Titans’ fans scattered in the lower bowl are on their feet, pounding the glass for me, but the rest of the spectators are either dead silent or booing their lungs out. Perfect.
But even as I revel in absolute joy, my chest aches.
Because all I can think about is Gray.
He’s been crowding my head all game, every shift. I keep telling myself to stay locked in, to focus on the puck, the bodies flying at me, the scoreboard, but he’s there anyway, taking up a good chunk of my brain power. If I expected peace of mind after my last visit with him, I was so very wrong.
The way his hand felt like paper when I held it in Chicago three weeks ago. The dullness in his eyes. I pull hard on my memory and try to remember the sound of his laugh, which I’ve heard over and over again since we were five, and yet I feel like it’s already fading from my memory.
“You keep scoring like that and we’ll start expecting it all the time,” Coach West says as I approach the bench.