Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124494 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124494 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
“My favorite author updated last night.” She pours herself a cup of coffee and tops mine up. “Oooh, look at the presentation on the parfaits. Mom could never even find the cereal.”
“Because someone always put it in the wrong place,” I add.
Our mom was the person to go shopping with, and she planned the best vacations, but her cooking skills started and ended with the microwave.
We both laugh until our eyes start to burn, and then she looks up to the ceiling. “Why are my feelings always on fire?”
“Hormones and grief, Fifi.” I give her a side hug and kiss her temple.
She shakes it off. “I’m fine. It’s too early to get sappy.” She makes the sign of the cross. “Miss you, Mom. Miss you, Dad.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, a photo memory came up this morning, and those always hit differently.”
I wish I could take her pain away, but it’s a power I don’t have. I wasn’t close with our mom the way she was. My pain is different than hers, a black void instead of a raw wound. “I’m sorry.”
“The only way forward is through. Any special instructions for Callie today? Practice as usual, right?”
“Yeah. Thank you. I know your schedule can be busy, and you want a social life, too.” I feel guilty that she has to pick up Callie from hockey practice most days.
“I can hang out with friends at lunch.” She points to the clock. “You need to get your ass in gear or you’ll be late, Coach.”
“Crap. Okay. See you for dinner. Text me your wishes, and I’ll pick up supplies on the way home.” I kiss her on the cheek, grab my messenger bag, slide my feet into my shoes, and head for the door. “Love you, Big Pheels!”
“Love you, too, Lex.”
CHAPTER 10
LEXI
Practice goes relatively smoothly. I say relatively, because every time I look in Roman’s direction, I’m reminded of what I did in the shower this morning. I need to get a grip. Maybe hypnotism would work.
Vander Zee skates up beside me. “Grace is open, don’t watch him from the sidelines, try to connect with him whenever you have the chance. Take the initiative.”
“Of course, yes.” I want Vander Zee to see me as competent, not someone who needs hand holding.
I skate over to Grace who passes me the puck. “What do you want to get out of this season?”
“I’ll be happy if I make it through without losing any teeth, courtesy of my teammates.” The sarcasm is strong with this one.
“Really? That’s your goal? Last year you were close to breaking records.”
“I’m the outsider, so this year is about survival again.” He flips the puck on the end of his stick, catching it twice before he flicks it to me.
His phrasing catches my attention. I know all about survival. I catch the puck before it touches the ice, tossing it up and letting it roll along the back of my stick before I pass it back. “What if it didn’t have to be about survival? What if it could be about something else?”
He catches it easily, sends it up, spins his stick behind his back, and still manages to land the puck on his blade, tossing it in the air once more before sending it my way. “It’s always survival for me, Coach Forrester. I get close to good things, and then they disappear.” There’s bite to his tone, but also another emotion. Sadness maybe. And resignation.
“Really?” I flip the puck back and forth half a dozen times before I flick it toward his non-dominant hand so he has to work a bit. “So you don’t think five years in the pros counts as a good thing?”
“My family sure doesn’t,” he grumbles.
“What about your grandma?”
He fumbles, and I catch the puck before it touches the ice.
“Nice moves, Coach Forrester,” Roman calls from the net.
I startle and almost drop the puck, but recover and shoot it instead. Even though Roman isn’t expecting it he stops the shot before it crosses the line.
“Nice save, Goalie,” I reply.
“I know what you’re doing,” Grace says.
“And what is that?”
“Trying to figure me out, get in my head. It’s a losing battle, Coach Forrester. Not worth the effort,” he replies.
“I can give you the name of a good therapist.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “I’d rather eat a cactus.”
“Good to know. Think about another goal. Survival is a start, but I want to see more from someone with your record on the ice, Grace.” I pat his shoulder and skate over to retrieve the puck from Roman.
His gaze locks on mine as I approach, and I feel the heat in it course through my body. “That’s some fan-fucking-tastic stick work, Coach.”
How he manages to make that compliment sound illicit is beyond me.
I arch a brow and he grins, eyes darkening.