Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 90364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Anton’s mouth drops, and he blinks at me.
“And that in a nutshell is pretty much my relationship with my father. When I’m playing well, I don’t hear from him. I haven’t had a single phone call since preseason. When I screw up on the ice, my phone blows up so he can tell me how he could have played it better. He’s narcissistic and always makes everything about him. He hates my mom, my mom hates him, and I always get caught in the middle of it. It’s why I rarely speak to either of them.”
And now I hold my breath. I don’t talk to people about my parents. People barely remember Dad as a player because he wasn’t one of the greats, so I don’t get asked about him often.
“I’m starting to see why you are the way you are,” Anton says.
“Ha, ha, narcissism runs in the family. You’re so funny.”
“That’s not …” His lips form a line. “I mean, yeah, that’s totally what I meant.”
It wasn’t. We both know it wasn’t. But I appreciate him backing off. He was going to say he’s realizing why I only do cheap hookups.
Because when you’re raised by two people who are more interested in bitching each other out than showing their kid love and support, you can’t help growing up to be closed off to anything more.
People. Relationships. Love.
I don’t want any of it.
Except when he leans over and presses a kiss to the top of my head, I’m starting to suspect that I really, really do.
Twenty
ANTON
The whole game, Montreal has had us on the back foot. Their offense is on point, but luckily, so is our defense. Ezra’s playing an incredible game, and whenever I’m in the team box and he’s out there, I can’t keep my eyes off him.
There’s nothing but the roar of the fans, the cool ice, and Montreal standing between me and adding another point to this season’s tally.
Coach is on edge, arms crossed, jaw set. He hasn’t stopped pacing.
For the first time all night, Montreal sends their third line out, and I watch Foster Grant hit the ice.
Coach calls for a line change, calling for me to go up against the kid who’s breaking records all over the place.
Diedrich, Larsen, and I are over the barrier the second we can, and we’re straight into it.
Grant is fucking fast. Griffith stops his first two attempts on goal, but that doesn’t slow him down. I want to school him to pace himself, but when you only get a few minutes of ice time each game, you’re hungry for it, and Foster Grant always skates like he has something to prove.
He’s like an eel, constantly slipping free of Diedrich and breaking away from defense, and when he’s got the puck, none of us can take it from him.
Fuck.
I’m not losing this game.
Time is ticking down, and I know Grant will be pulled from the ice soon. I’m determined not to let him leave until I’ve shown him what someone with years of experience can do.
The second I see Torson pass to him, I tear down the ice. The crowd drowns out, my legs burn, and my focus narrows down to the puck.
Then everything falls into place.
Ezra shoots past me, legally checking Grant into the boards before he can get a pass off. I change course, scoop the puck up on my way past, and head straight for the blue line.
I catch sight of Torson to my left and send a bullet right by him to Diedrich, who passes to Larsen. Excitement flooding my veins when I’m hit with a wild thought: we’re about to score.
There’s not a shred of doubt with that statement. Superstitions be damned, Ezra and I made this happen.
I push harder, falling in line with Larsen as he shoots—and misses. The puck bounces off the goalie’s pads and rebounds right into my blade, and I fire it back to Larsen, who now has a clear shot.
The lamp lights up.
“Fuck yes!”
I knock my helmet against Larsen’s as Coach calls us off again.
When the game ends 2-1, I haul Ezra against me. It’s safe, because the rest of the team is doing the same, but I keep it short—shorter than when I hug the other guys.
And the moment that thought hits me and I step off the ice to head down the chute, our conversation from last night runs through my head.
This is what he was talking about, and now that it’s been pointed out to me, I can see where he’s coming from. I didn’t mean to treat him that way at all, but the problem is, I’m worried about getting too friendly with Ezra. The moment last night where we talked about our families really toed that line of what we are and highlighted exactly why I’ve been trying to keep my distance.