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)
Mick freezes, his hand halfway through unlacing his skate. He looks up, his jaw literally dropping. "Harper? As in… Harper Coleman? Ryan's sister? The nurse? The one who looked like she wanted to transplant your kidneys without anesthesia at the gala?"
"The very same," I mutter, leaning back against the locker and closing my eyes. "She’s the one. She’s the only thing I can think about. It’s like a slap shot to the ribs that I never saw coming."
Mick whistles low, finally pulling his skate off and dropping it with a heavy thud. "Jax, buddy. Have you lost your goddamn mind? Ryan Coleman is going to hunt your ass down and eat your balls with ketchup."
"I know," I say, and I do. I know the risks. I know the rivalry. I know that if this gets out, it’ll be a PR nightmare. The 'Ice Wall' melting for the sister of his fiercest enemy. It’s the kind of headline that the gossip rags love.
"But you’re still going after her," Mick says, and it’s not a question. He’s watching me with a mix of pity and awe, the way people look at a car crash in slow motion.
"I have to," I tell him, my voice cracking with a vulnerability I haven't felt since I was a rookie. "I’ve spent my whole life being the guy who doesn't feel anything. But when she’s in the room, all I do is feel. She makes me feel something for the first time in my life."
Nobody talks about my history. Not the shit that happened before my name turned up on a draft board. Most of these guys think I hatched out of an egg at age seventeen, stick in hand, ready to stop pucks and piss off every forward in the league. They have no clue what it’s like to bounce from one fucking foster home to another, plastic trash bags for luggage, never remembering who you’re supposed to call ‘Mom’ that month.
The only saving grace for me was the hockey clinics run by a former NHL linesman. Those clinics gave me something to do with my energy and aggression. And a purpose in life that led to my NHL career.
It isn’t something I talk about. No one really knows about it. Except Mick. He knows. He always has. His dad was the former NHL lineman.
Mick sits in silence for a long moment, the only sound the hum of the ventilation system. He’s my best friend, the only one who sees past the mask, and right now, he looks like he’s trying to decide whether to hug me or call for a medic. Finally, he reaches over and claps a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm and steadying.
"I hope you know what you’re doing," Mick says, a small, lopsided grin appearing on his face. "You have a lot to fucking lose."
He’s right. But the one thing I don’t think I’ll survive losing is Harper. So, I’m going to do whatever it takes to make this work with her. Even if it means playing nice with her asshole brother.
I stand up, the decision crystallizing in my mind with the same clarity I feel when a game is on the line. The road trip starts tomorrow. New York is at the end of the line. Ryan's territory. But Harper is here, in Seattle, and I’m not leaving this city without making sure she knows exactly where I stand.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HARPER
The morning air in Seattle City Park carries the scent of damp cedar and the sharp, clean promise of a day that hasn't had the chance to go downhill yet. My lungs burn, but it’s a controlled fire, the kind that anchors me to the pavement and pushes the chaotic echoes of the ER out of my head. I check my watch as I pass the three-mile mark. My pace is steady, my breathing rhythmic, and for the first time in forty-eight hours, I feel almost normal. I always do this after a long work stretch. I come home from the hospital and take a long run before dropping into bed and sleeping for hours.
I reach the fountain, the massive stone basin where the water arches in silver ribbons against the overcast sky, and slow to a jog. The mist from the fountain catches on my heated skin, a welcome shock. I’m reaching up to adjust the clip in my hair when a shadow falls across the path. It’s too long, too broad to be a casual runner, and it moves with a deliberate, predatory grace that makes the hair on my arms stand up before I even see his face.
"You're slowing down, Coleman."
I stop dead, my sneakers squeaking against the damp concrete. Jaxson Thorne stands ten feet away, looking like he stepped out of a high-end athletic wear catalog. He’s wearing charcoal-gray compression gear that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, his chest heaving slightly, though he barely looks winded. His hair is a damp mess of dark waves, and his eyes are locked on mine with a terrifying amount of focus.