Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
But I don’t want it. Even though everything hurts as I walk up the steps, punch in the code, and head into my house where Zamboni bounds over to me. Her tail wags as she presses close, whimpering her hellos.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I need to walk her with my bruised ribs, and my chest is aching.
“I’ll take her out,” Skylar says before I can even ask.
“Thanks,” I say, guilt shooting through me along with the pain. As she leaves with the dog, I grin and bear it over to the fridge, grab an ice pack, and gently lower myself to the couch. Those polar plunges have come in handy—this ice is nothing.
Except five minutes later, my ribs feel frozen. Skylar returns with Zamboni, then hustles over to me. My dog comes, too, whimpering and nosing me. I pet her. “I’m okay, girl,” I say.
Skylar side-eyes me. “You’re not.”
I don’t look at her. I can’t. It hurts too much.
She sits on the end of the couch and gently sets a hand on my shin, rubbing slow circles. “What can I do for you?”
She’s so caring. So giving. But all I can think is how I want to be able to finish the season on my terms. That was my goal—to finish what I started when I was twenty-four and nobody wanted to take a chance on me. To play out the rest of the year. What if this injury leads to another? What if I don’t heal right?
How can I recover when I’m so distracted that I lose sight of the puck?
This isn’t anybody else’s fault but mine. My head started wandering to her just like it did at training with Leah and Corbin. These last few weeks, it’s always wandering to her.
The more that happens, the less I can focus on the job. I’m going to bring down the team. They’re going to bench me before I even finish out the year.
What will my legacy be then?
I’ll just be some guy who stayed beyond his prime. A player who hobbled out onto the ice when he should’ve retired.
I scrub a hand across my jaw. The last thing I want is to hurt the woman I’m absolutely falling madly for. But now I’m injured, and it’s my own fault.
Love makes you annoyingly vulnerable. I’m better off white-knuckling it myself.
This woman? This caring, giving, kind, considerate woman who’s looking after me, who’s taking care of my dog? This woman who bought a toy for my dog? Who puts up with all of my mom’s quirks? Who stood up for me in front of my ex?
She deserves better than a guy who’ll get distracted on the job. A guy who gets distracted isn’t dependable.
“Skylar,” I say heavily.
In a heartbeat, tension radiates from her, and everything must be obvious from my voice.
“Yes?”
I breathe out. Breathe in. Let the pain from my ribs shoot through me. “I made a promise to go out on my own terms. To not let my team down. Tonight, I let them down because I was distracted.”
Her brow furrows. Her voice is filled with concern as she asks, “How were you distracted?”
I swallow past the guilt. “Because I was looking at you. I was thinking of you. I can’t stop thinking about you.” The words should be positive, but it feels like I’m wrenching up my guts, and that’s the problem. I can’t manage all of these feelings and deliver on my top priority. My team. “But the thing is, I think about you so much…I can’t concentrate on hockey.”
She nods a few times, absorbing my meaning. “You really can’t?” she asks carefully, perhaps making sure I mean what I’m saying.
“Yeah. I think we should take a—” I wince. My ribs ache. I brace my arm around them, coughing, because I hate what I’m about to say. She grabs a pillow and hands it to me. I hold it tight as she says what I can’t.
“A break?” Her voice sounds like it’s breaking too, and I grab hold of the lifeline she’s giving me.
“Yeah.” But I don’t want to be a complete dick. “But you can still—you can still shoot the podcast at my mom’s.”
She gives me a look of disbelief. I can’t believe I said it either. But the damage is done, so when she says a harsh, “Thanks,” I just mutter, “You’re welcome.”
And I don’t stop her when she leaves.
Instead, I pet my dog.
Because Zamboni stays. No matter what.
33
THE FULL TONGUE TREATMENT
SKYLAR
I’m starfished on the living room carpet, bathrobe flared open, trying futilely to reach for my coffee cup when I hear it.
A squawking comes from the mudroom window. Sounds a little like a roh-roh-roh.
Rolling listlessly to my side, I face Simon. “Can you go check?”
He wags his tail.
“It might be the great blue heron.”
His tail thumps faster. He tilts his head, his floppy ears sweeping the hardwood.