Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“Yes, but what I’m asking about is why you would care whether or not my girlfriend is coming.”
“Nobody gives a fuck about your girlfriend, Davenport.” Preston slides in like a fucking hyena, wrapping both his arms around our necks. “Big man here wants to know whether or not Darcy would bring her sister like she dragged her to the game.”
I flick him on the forehead. “How do you know there was dragging? Maybe she came voluntarily.”
“To see me. Of course she would! No one hears about the legendary Preston Armstrong and misses the chance to see me in full-blown action. I’m God’s gift to peasants.”
“It’s God’s gift to women,” I say.
“I meant peasants. Fuck off. Anyway, I bet money Vee will come along.”
“Her name is Violet.” I elbow him, and he grunts, releasing us.
“Vee will come.” He makes a face at me, then tilts his head in Kane’s direction. “Right?”
“Not sure, and I would rather you stay away from her, Jude. Dahlia doesn’t like it, and I’m also not a fan.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your and Dahlia’s likes and dislikes.”
In fact, I still want to punch the motherfucker because Violet used to praise his style of playing. Pacifist, boring, technical powerhouse captain.
I’m the one who dragged him into hockey, so I should get the credit for any of the praise he gets.
“Callahan.” The coach’s voice cuts into the locker room like an arrow as he tilts his head to the side. “My office.”
The guys hoot and give me shit as I trail behind him. “I thought I played well?”
“For once,” he grumbles, and I shake my head.
Not sure why he’s even singling me out instead of Kane, but I ignore that as I check my phone in case Violet texted me.
Over the past week, I’ve been the one who mostly texts, and she barely replies. And if she texts first, it’s about food.
Do you have any allergies? Is there any type of food you don’t like?
Negative on all accounts.
I told her not to cook and that I could get the best meals from my chef, but she always has something ready. I stopped asking her not to after I realized that she looks truly happy when she’s cooking. She’ll have a smile on her face and sway to songs on the radio.
And, really, knowing Violet only ever cooked for Dahlia makes me feel special. Not to mention that her cooking is better than five-star meals.
“There we are.” Coach stops at the entrance to his office.
I lift my head, and my jaw locks when I see my father standing in the middle of the office, scrolling through Coach’s notes.
He always has things to say to the coaches about my stats, my performance, and my ability to improve more.
I’ve only ever been a machine to this man.
Coach Slater can’t even lift his head in front of Regis Callahan or argue, not when my father could have him blacklisted not only from town, but also from hockey.
He slowly retreats and closes the door, leaving me alone with the one person I hate more than anything, despite his blood that flows through my veins.
My father lifts his head. “Almost perfect stats tonight.”
Regis Callahan is a man carved out of marble and ice, untouched by time or weakness.
His posture is rigid, as if every movement is measured for maximum control. Silver streaks through his dark-brown hair, perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, a contrast to the harsh lines of his face.
Julian and I inherited some of his features. Sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes as dark brown as mine, but his gaze holds cold precision.
He’s always in tailored suits, crisp and immaculate, not a wrinkle to be found, because disorder has no place in his world.
Which is why Mom’s fits grated on his nerves. He was absent, uncaring, or downright ruthless with his doctors and institutes that he forced my mother into.
“If that’s all…” I turn toward the door.
“I’m being civil by talking to you here instead of dragging you to the house. Don’t make me lock you up, Jude.”
I grind my teeth and face him, wearing the poker face he engraved into me one whip at a time. “If you have free time to come to a college hockey game, maybe you should spend it on your golden child, Julian.”
He folds the book closed. “I choose to spend it watching my son play hockey. Is that an issue?”
“Not really, as long as I don’t have to see you.”
“Jude.” His voice betrays the slightest hint of impatience. “You’re pushing it.”
“I thought I did that a long time ago.”
He releases a long breath, his chest straining against his shirt. “How long will you be indulging in these self-destructive habits and cutting me out of your life?”
“Forever is a good start.”
“You wish to follow the path your mother took, is that it?”