Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
She blocks my path, all five-foot-two of her radiating the kind of aggressive best friend energy that could jolt a coding patient back to life. She grips my bicep before I can sidestep, and if there’s one thing four years of friendship has taught me, it’s that fighting Mia is like wrestling an affectionate pit bull. Pointless and a little hazardous.
“Don’t think for a second I’m buying that,” she says, voice pitched low for privacy but loud enough to cut through the surrounding chaos. “You have the look of someone who just got caught with her mitts in the cookie jar.”
I snort at the “don’t bullshit me” look on her face. “It’s nothing. Just a long day.” Boy, is that ever an understatement.
“Well, at least it’s almost over.” She still has that look on her face. The one that tells me she isn’t ready to give up trying to get the truth out of me.
“Thank God for that,” I breathe as the trauma pager goes off.
My exhaustion flies right out the window as adrenaline kicks in. It always sucks to get a trauma at the end of the shift, but at least it’ll help me forget about Jaxson. At least for a little while.
CHAPTER FIVE
JAXSON
The puck is a black blur, a frozen disk of rubber screaming toward my upper right corner at ninety miles per hour. Ordinarily, I don't think. I react. My glove hand is an autonomous entity, a heat-seeking missile designed to snatch hope out of the air and crush it. But as I track the projectile, the black circle morphs into a pair of sharp, hazel eyes narrowed in professional focus. I see a flash of endless curves. I hear the warm smokiness of her voice.
The puck thuds into the netting behind me. The red light doesn't flash during practice, but the sound of it hitting the twine is an indictment. It’s the sound of a failure I don’t taste very often.
"Thorne!" Coach’s voice bellows from the bench, echoing off the empty rafters of the arena. "Are you meditating out there, or do you plan on stopping something today?"
I don't look at him. I keep my eyes on the ice, staring at the gouges left by the skates of my teammates. My injured hand is wrapped tight in a custom-molded guard inside my trapper. It doesn't actually hurt. The local anesthetic wore off thirty-six hours ago, replaced by a dull, rhythmic thrum that feels less like an injury and more like a reminder. Every time I flex my palm, I feel the tug of the nylon thread, so I’ve learned how to hold my hand just right.
"Fine," I mutter, tapping my stick against the posts to reset. The sound is hollow, lacking its usual authority. I’m a mess. I am a highly paid, world-class athlete who is currently being dismantled by the memory of a woman’s touch.
Mick McLinden circles the net, spraying a fine mist of ice over my pads as he stops. He leans on his stick, peering at me through the cage of his helmet. His face is flushed, his breaths coming in ragged plumes of white. He’s the only one who knows I didn't spend my night off at a club or a high-stakes poker game. He knows I spent it in an ER treatment bay, being scolded by Ryan Coleman’s sister.
"You’re off, Jax," Mick says, his voice low enough to stay between us. "You’ve let in four during this drill. Four. Usually, you’d be breaking your stick over the crossbar by now."
"I'm fine," I say, shifting my weight into a crouch. My knees ache, a familiar protest of age and impact, but the discomfort is a distant second to the mental static. "And focused."
"On what? Because it’s definitely not the puck." Mick nudges my pad with his stick. "Is it the hand? If you’re playing hurt, you need to tell Coach. We can’t afford you aggravating a tendon because you’re too stubborn to sit for a week."
"The hand is fine," I snap, and the edge in my voice finally sounds like me. It’s a sharp, jagged thing that warns people to back off. "The stitches are clean. I’m fine."
Mick raises an eyebrow, his grin widening in a way that makes me want to shove him into the boards. "You’re not fine. You’re a goddamn mess. Admit and get a hold of your shit."
I push off the post and skate a small circle, the blades biting deep into the scarred surface. Mick is right, and that’s the problem. I’m a man of systems. I organize my life into legible blocks. Training, nutrition, recovery, performance. There is no block for a woman who occupies every goddamn molecule of my mind.
"Drop it, Mick," I say, sliding back into the crease. "I’m fine."
"Right. And I'm the Queen of England." Mick laughs, a short, barking sound that gets cut off as Coach whistles for the next drill. "Just try to keep your head in the building, okay?"