Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 234
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
I’m not that wonderkid, and MVU’s hockey team isn’t hurting for a win. They consistently advance to the playoffs in their division. So in the back of my head, I’m considering how he could just want fanfare.
The Cobalt to ride the bench and sell-out tickets.
Except, he’s only ever discussed my potential. He’s only ever been nice. So I have this desire to please him. I can’t shake it.
“If you’re worried about the publicity, we can do a private tryout,” he even tells me, further eliminating the notion he’s interested in my family’s notoriety. “It’ll just be me and Coach Zamora.”
That’s not the issue. “Can I think about it some more?” I ask, mostly to avoid hurting him with an axe to whatever idea he’s constructed in his mind. My mom would shake her head at me with the subtlest of smiles. “Let them down gently” is not a phrase in her guide to dealing with…anyone.
Both my parents are business-oriented—my mom in fashion; my dad in anything with a high profit margin. Cobalt Inc., our birthright, owns subsidiary companies that sell magnets, paints, ethically-sourced diamonds, video games, and more sectors than I can name. Though in another life, I wonder if they would’ve worked in academics and argued over old British literature and texts written in Middle English.
“Of course you can.” Haddock’s tone goes upbeat, which makes me feel good but also makes my stomach roil. Because…I’m not playing hockey. I can’t play anymore. “Season doesn’t start until late September. We’ve got plenty of time, Ben.”
I get tripped up on how he says we as if I’m part of the team already. My old coach went out of his way to exclude me when I was actually on the team. I was the shining celebrity star he was trying to ground every day.
I couldn’t even blame him. Cobalts are born in the sky. Feeling for the earth has always been a struggle, but it’s where I’ve loved to be, rolling around in the dirt and mud. Literally. My mom used to hose me off after a long day playing outside before she’d let me in the house.
I smile to myself at the memory as the elevator descends, and I listen to Coach Haddock make a final plea. “You’ll love the facilities. They redid the rink a couple years ago. If you haven’t seen it yet, I’ll give you a tour anytime. Or I can get some of the guys to show you around. Get you introduced to the team.”
The elevator suddenly jerks to a stop at the eighteenth floor. Not even close to the lobby yet. I keep the phone rooted to my ear while the doors slide open to reveal a long-limbed guy who slouches on the opposing wall, waiting for this elevator.
Red bulky headphones cover his ears, and a black hood is drawn over his head, shadowing striking features that could cause double-takes and four-car pileups. Elevator doors are now fully open. It lets out a ding. He straightens off the wall, then stops when he sees me.
He has sharp cheekbones and amber eyes like melted caramel, but they’re far from sweet when he looks at me.
“Hey, I need to call you back,” I tell Haddock fast, and I only hang up when Coach says, “I’ll be here.” Then I grab the side of the elevator as the doors try to shut.
I wait for him to come inside.
He settles back against the wall. “I’ll take the next one.”
I’m about to ask if he’s sure, but he’s already staring at everything but me. The line of his jaw could cut glass as he clenches down. I let go and the elevator doors shut on him. My muscles cramp.
Yeah.
I take it personally.
Because that’s my cousin.
Xander Hale.
Harriet is waiting for me on a congested corner, dodging the shoulders and elbows of power-walking New Yorkers. When she finally spots me, her chest collapses in a relieved exhale. It brightens something inside me, knowing my presence brings relief.
A smile crawls across my face. “Harriet Fisher,” I say as I reach her short height.
“Cobalt boy.” She adjusts her backpack strap. I’m only carrying a water bottle. The blue aluminum is decaled with different environmental and wildlife stickers.
“I don’t even get a Ben?” I tease.
“Maybe later.” She looks me up and down. I’m just wearing a white ’70s-style ringer tee with the words Give a Hoot, Don’t Pollute! and an owl. She’s stuck on my biceps, the fabric tight around my carved muscles. “Nice suit and tie.”
“Same to you.” She has on low-rise, acid-wash jeans and a mesh camo top that barely covers her ribcage. Not changing her punk-rock style for this interview. I respect the come as you are approach. “I like the belly button ring.”
She prickles, shoulders raised as if preparing to combat the punchline.