Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
First period, I’m locked in. The ice feels clean beneath my blades, sharp and right. The puck drops, and my body knows exactly where to be—two strides left, pivot, find the soft ice between their defensemen.
The game flows through me like music I’ve been playing my whole life.
Three minutes in, I steal the puck at our blue line. Their winger’s reaching, off-balance, and I slip it through his feet. The ice opens up, and I feel Parker on my right without looking. Their defenseman commits too early, too eager, and I sauce it over his stick. Parker doesn’t even have to slow down.
Ten seconds later, the goal light bathes us in red.
We celebrate with the Voodoo’s signature victory cry, shouting “Bon Temps!” as Parker jumps into my arms. I spin him once before setting him down, both of us laughing.
Afterward, I point up at the Jumbotron camera, knowing my girls are watching back home, celebrating along with us.
The period stays clean and fast. With five minutes left, I catch their defense changing. It’s just a half-second of confusion in an otherwise solid game from Carolina, but I use it to curl through the neutral zone, building speed. Their left defenseman backs up too far, the space between him and his partner just enough for me to slip through.
I thread it, accelerating into the gap. Their goalie pops out to get in my way, but I’ve got too much momentum. Quick deke, forehand—and as he drops, I pull it backhand and lift it over his shoulder. The horn sounds, and this time I let myself feel it—the crowd’s roar, the ice spray, the weight of my teammates piling on.
2-0 after one.
Coach lifts a quiet fist of war lord victory into the air as we file past. “That’s the way to bring the turning the tide, boys. That’s the way.”
Second period starts with the same energy.
We’re rolling, everything clicking.
Then five minutes in, I’m battling in the corner with Patridge, their second-line forward, a big guy, but usually a clean player. There’s nothing special about the battle, just two players working for position.
I’m about to snag the puck when he grunts too softly for the refs to hear, “How’s life with your stalker, buddy? Elly’s podcast is a hit in our locker room, that’s for sure.”
What the fuck is he talking about?
The puck slips off my stick, but thankfully, Nix is already swooping in beside us, turning play back toward the Carolina net.
I glare at Partridge as he surges forward beside me.
“Love the parts about you,” he adds with a smirk. “Sexy shit. She’s got a nice voice, too. Real smooth.”
“What the—”
“Graves, eyes!” Parker’s voice cuts through the fog of confusion and anger at hearing Elly’s name on this fucker’s lips. I jolt back to the play in time to see their winger scoop the puck clean.
Suddenly, our defense is scrambling—Blue lays out, trying to block the pass, but it slips under his stick. A quick feed to the slot, and Capo barely gets his pad down in time. The puck rings off the post, and my whole body jolts at the sound.
“The hell was that?” Parker hisses as we change. “You good?”
“Yeah. It’s nothing.” But my gloves are already soaked through. “I’m good.”
I’m not good. Next shift, Partridge’s words echo in my head. I can’t stop glaring at him every time we pass on the ice. As a result, my timing’s off and my passes are just behind the tape. But hell, at least I’m very aware of where this fucker is at all times.
When he comes through the neutral zone fast, I step up to stop him, but I’m late, high, and my shoulder catches him in the chest.
He bounces up laughing. “Guess I hit a nerve, huh, buddy?”
The ref’s arm goes up. Two for interference. I skate to the box with cotton in my ears, my heart hammering.
Then Carolina scores on the power play, and my jaw nearly snaps in half.
The period drags. My legs feel heavy, and every time I touch the puck, I curse the fucking thing. By the time the horn sounds, I’m drenched in sweat and mad as hell.
At myself. At Partridge. At the entire Carolina locker room and whatever the fuck they think they’re listening to in there.
It’s not Elly.
It can’t be.
I’m first off the ice, practically running to the locker room. My helmet comes off before I reach my stall, my hair plastered to my skull as I chuck my gloves and grab my phone out of my locker.
“What’s going on?” Parker asks as he catches up a moment later. “Seriously, man, something is clearly off.”
“Partridge said something about Elly.” I shake my head as I type “hockey” into the search bar in the podcast section. “Something about them listening to her podcast and her voice being hot… I don’t know. It didn’t make any fucking sense.”