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)
And the gorgeous little firecracker doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. Fucking hell.
CHAPTER SIX
HARPER
The roar of twenty thousand fans vibrates through the soles of my shoes, a low-frequency hum that settles deep in my chest, reinforcing the fact I shouldn't be here. Every instinct I possess, honed by a lifetime of avoiding athletes at all costs, told me to stay home, order takeout, and pretend the Seattle Knights weren't hosting the New York Titans tonight. Yet, here I am, perched in the family section, my knuckles white as I grip the railing of the balcony.
The air in the arena is a strange cocktail of expensive cologne, spilled beer, and the sharp, metallic bite of recycled ice. Down on the rink, the game is a blur of high-speed violence and tactical grace. My eyes should be on Ryan. He’s number seventeen, the forward with the explosive stride and the single-minded focus of a predator. But my gaze keeps drifting, sliding across the ice toward the opposite end of the rink.
Jaxson Thorne is a statue of white and steel. Behind the cage of his goalie mask, he is a ghost, an impenetrable barrier that has spent the last forty minutes frustrating every one of Ryan’s attempts to score. The 'Ice Wall' isn't just a nickname; it's a physical reality. He moves with a calculated economy, his gloved hand snapping out to snatch pucks from the air like a cobra striking. Each time he makes a save, a part of me exhales, while another part of me tightens with frustration.
The rivalry between them isn't just professional; it’s atmospheric. You can feel it in the way the players collide near the crease, the extra shove after the whistle, the lingering glares that the cameras always seem to catch. Ryan has hated Jaxson since their junior league days, a feud built on stolen goals and bruised egos.
Then the third period begins, and the temperature in the arena seems to spike. It starts with a sharp, stinging strike of wood against shin, and before the referee can even reach for his whistle, the ice explodes into a sea of sliding bodies and discarded gloves. It’s a line brawl, the kind that makes the crowd surge to their feet with a bloodthirsty cheer.
My heart doesn't hammer; it simply stops. I see Ryan in the thick of it, his jersey pulled over his head as he tangles with a Knights defenseman, but my eyes are locked on the crease. Jaxson hasn't moved, but a Titans player is charging toward him. It’s a violation of the unwritten code, a direct assault on the goalie, and it happens in a heartbeat.
The collision is deafening, even over the crowd. The enforcer slams into Jaxson, sending them both crashing into the goalpost with a sickening crunch of metal and bone. I’m on my feet before I realize it, my hands pressed against the cold glass. My nurse’s brain is already triaging, calculating the force of the impact, the potential for concussion, the fragility of the human cervical spine beneath all that padding.
Jaxson hits the ice hard. His mask flies off, skittering across the scarred surface like a discarded shell. For a terrifying ten seconds, he doesn't move. The arena goes silent, a collective intake of breath that tastes like ozone. Then, slowly, he pushes himself up. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he gingerly touches his face before reaching for his helmet.
When the camera zooms in on the Jumbotron, I see it. The reinforced cage of his goalie mask is bent, and a jagged crack runs through the fiberglass near the temple. It’s a testament to the violence of the hit. He looks dazed, but he shakes it off with a snarl that is visible even from the nosebleed seats. He’s back on his feet, but he’s not right. I can see the slight tremor in his glove hand.
I spend the rest of the game filled with anxiety. Every time the puck nears the Seattle goal, I find myself whispering a silent plea for it to stay away. I’m not rooting for the Knights; I’m rooting for a man who has no business being on the ice with a possible head injury. My loyalty is a frayed wire, sparking with every save he makes, every time he’s forced to drop to his knees and scramble for a rebound.
The buzzer finally sounds, ending the siege. The Knights win, one to zero. A shutout for Jaxson. The crowd erupts, but I’m already moving toward the exit, my legs trembling. I need to know. I need to see him, to confirm that he isn’t badly injured.
The back hallways of the arena are a labyrinth of concrete and fluorescent lights, smelling of wintergreen rub and stale sweat. As a player’s sister, I have the pass to be here, but usually, I’m waiting for Ryan by the Titans’ locker room. Tonight, I find myself hovering near the neutral corridor, the space between the two locker rooms.