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)
“You’re lucky, you know that?” I mutter, dropping my hand and stepping back before I do something truly dumb. Like pull him down for a kiss. “You should have your head examined. But you’re clear.” I manage to mumble past my dry throat, “I really, really need to go.”
He steps closer, a brick wall of muscle and stubbornness. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Harper.”
My traitorous core lights up like a power grid. I roll my eyes, doing my best to sound unimpressed. “Thanks for the warning.”
His laughter follows me down the hall.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JAXSON
Another practice. Another day thinking about Harper when I should be concentrating on what’s happening on the ice. I track the puck with a mechanical precision that should be effortless, but today, my timing is off by a fraction of a heartbeat. The rubber thuds against my stick and deflects across the ice instead of being smothered in my trapper. It’s a sloppy save, the kind that makes my goalie coach rattle his stick against the boards in a rhythmic, disapproving cadence. Fuck. Another day of screwing up at practice because my mind is elsewhere.
"Thorne! Keep your eyes on the prize, not the rafters!" Coach shouts, his voice echoing through the chilled air of the practice facility. I don't look at him. I can't. If I do, he might see that my 'Ice Wall' persona has a hairline fracture running straight through the center.
Thirty-six hours. That’s how long it’s been since Harper Coleman met me in the hallway. Every time I blink, I see the hungry flash of her eyes. Every time I breathe, I feel her settling deeper into my soul.
I drop into the butterfly, the chill biting into my knees through the thick padding. I’m a professional. I’m a statue of focused granite. I’m currently losing my mind over a woman who has every reason to hate me and a brother who actually does.
Mick McLinden skids to a halt in front of my crease, hitting me with a sense of déjà vu. He doesn’t say anything at first, which is worse than the shouting. Mick knows the rhythm of my game better than I know my own heartbeat. He knows when the wall is solid and when it’s made of glass.
"You’re playing like you’ve got a dozen eggs in your pockets and you’re terrified of breaking one, Jax," Mick says, his voice low enough to stay between us. "We’ve got the road trip starting tomorrow. Vancouver, Calgary, and then the big one in New York. You plan on showing up for any of them?"
“Didn’t we just go through this a few days ago?” I push off the ice, my skates carving deep, angry grooves into the surface.
“It seems to be our thing now,” Mick grumbles, glaring at me. “What has you acting like this?”
"I'm just a little stiff from the collision the other night. My head’s clear."
"Your head is in another zip code," he shoots back, following me as I head toward the bench for a drink. "You missed three glove saves in the last ten minutes that a peewee goalie could have snagged. Who is she?"
The water from my bottle is cold, but it doesn't do anything to dampen the heat rising in my chest. I squeeze the plastic too hard, a stream of water splashing against my chin. I wipe it away with the back of my glove, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. The silence between us stretches, filled only by the distant sounds of the rest of the team running drills at the other end of the rink.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, the lie tasting like ash. I try to focus on the weight of my gear, the familiar constriction of the chest protector, the way the world looks through the steel cage of my mask. It’s a cage I built myself, and usually, it’s the only place I feel safe. Right now, it just feels like I’m suffocating.
Mick lets out a short, sharp laugh. "Right. And I’m the next Prime Minister of Canada. Spill it, Wall."
We head into the locker room ahead of the others, the heavy doors swinging shut and cutting off the roar of the facility. The room is quiet, smelling of wintergreen and old sweat, a familiar sanctuary that suddenly feels far too small. I sit on the wooden bench, my hands vibrating with a low, persistent hum. It’s the same hum I felt when Harper touched me. A physical frequency I can’t seem to tune out.
"It’s Harper," I say, the name falling out of my mouth before I can stop it. It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud to someone else, and the weight of it nearly floors me. It isn't just a name; it’s a confession. It’s the sound of my professional suicide and my personal salvation all wrapped into two syllables.