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 slow today, Thorne," Ryan sneers as he skids past the crease, the spray from his blades coating my mask in fine crystals of ice. "Distracted? Or just losing your edge?"
I don't give him the satisfaction of a verbal response. I just slide my mask up an inch, letting the frigid air bite into my damp skin, and offer him a stare that’s supposed to be granite. This fucker isn’t going to come between Harper and me. No matter what. I’ll even play nice with him if I have to.
The third period is a blur of violence and desperation. Ryan plays like a man possessed, taking every hit and delivering ten more, his eyes never leaving the cage. I stop everything he throws at me. A backhand from the slot. A redirected tip. A desperate wrap-around that nearly catches me out of position. Every save feels like a personal insult I’m hurling back at him.
The buzzer finally cuts through the tension, a sharp, metallic shriek that ends the siege. Shutout. Thirty-eight saves. In any other world, this would be a career highlight, a masterclass in goalkeeping. But as I lean my head back against the crossbar, my chest heaving, the victory tastes hollow while my girl is suffering.
I’m halfway down the service corridor toward the locker room, my gear still dripping, and my helmet tucked under my arm, when a shadow cuts across the fluorescent light. Ryan is standing there, still in his Titans jersey, his chest pumping with the same frantic energy as mine. He’s bypassed the post-game handshakes and the media scrum. He’s here for the only thing that matters.
"Stay away from her," he says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates in the narrow hallway. He doesn't move toward me, but the air between us is thick with the scent of ozone and unspent rage.
I stop, my skates feeling heavy on the rubber. "That’s not fucking happening. Harper is mine. I love her," I say. The words are quiet, but they fill the hallway, expanding until there’s no room for his anger or my fear. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud to someone who isn't Harper, and the weight of it is terrifying and exhilarating all at once. "I love her, Ryan. And I’m not letting her go because you can’t separate what happens on the ice from what happens in the real world."
Ryan lunges. It’s not a calculated hockey hit; it’s a desperate, uncoordinated strike born of pure frustration. He slams into my chest, the force of him catching me off-balance in my heavy goalie gear. We hit the wall together, the sound of padding against concrete echoing like a gunshot. His forearm presses against my throat, and for a second, I see nothing but the red-hot haze of his fury.
“She’s my sister.”
“She’s my everything.” I don't fight back when he punches me in the face. I’m bigger than him, and I have the leverage of the wall, but I just let him have his shot. He throws another punch. I don’t even blink. I take it. Hell. I probably deserve it. But then, right as Ryan cocks his arm back for round three, a streak of green and blue mixed with pure, unbridled fury barrels down the corridor.
“RYAN! What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing?” Holy shit. Harper’s voice could shatter reinforced glass. She’s standing there wearing a Knights’ jersey with my goddamn number on it. Fuck me. Just the sight of her turns my insides to mush while my cock turns to stone.
Ryan actually freezes, his fist stopping midair. He looks like a six-foot-five little kid caught with his little paw in the cookie jar. “Stay out of this, Harp,” he snaps, but it sounds weak even to my ringing ears.
“No!” she barks, wedging herself right between us like she’s invincible. “You’re being a complete asshole! This ends now, or I swear to God I’ll never talk to you again.”
He glares, but Harper doesn’t budge. She’s in firecracker mode, chin high, eyes blazing, practically vibrating with protective rage. I’ll be honest. I’m kinda turned on. And maybe a little terrified.
Her gaze darts over my face. “Are you okay?” She brushes a thumb under my eye, gentle, and so goddamn sweet. “You let him hit you!” she accuses, whirling back on her brother, all five-foot-nothing of her bristling.
I shrug. “Figured he needed to get it out of his system.” My eye’s swelling. Shit. Ryan’s got a hell of a right hook.
“Unbelievable,” Harper mutters, turning to Coleman. “Get over yourself.” He winces as she pushes her finger into his chest, and I almost feel sorry for him. “You can get pissed at Jaxson for kicking your ass on the ice.” Ouch. That reminder is downright mean. “But you have no right to punch him because he’s dating me. It’s none of your business.” By the time she’s finished her tirade, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.