Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Mirth danced up into her throat. “Are you being smug?”
He shrugged a shoulder, pitched onto his side and drew her into a giant, warm bear hug. “Maybe I’m a little relieved I still know what I’m doing.” He dropped a hard kiss on her forehead. Then another. “Twice, huh?” A grunt. “Hell yeah.”
“No fair. I can only make you come once.”
Burgess scoffed, running his hands down her back, giving her butt a nice squeeze. “Believe me, gorgeous, I could make you come a hundred times and getting to experience you once would still make it fucking fair.”
“That’s so romantic,” she whispered, but it dissolved into an intimate laugh against his mouth, his big hand traveling up her back to stroke her hair.
“Tallulah.”
“Yes?” she whispered, rolling their foreheads together.
“It’s not a home without you.” He pulled her close. “Not anymore. Come back.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Burgess hadn’t been this clearheaded on the ice in years, especially on the road.
Tonight: Pittsburgh. As he collided with two opponents and a battle for the puck ensued, ending in him chipping it to one of the rookies, he was clear on his mission. Energized and focused. He wasn’t thinking about his problematic back. Nor was he thinking about how his every movement would be perceived by the people occupying the seats. If they’d already written him off as a player who’d seen better days. If they were right.
Yeah, he was focused, although for the first time in his professional career, there was an underlying sense of I can’t fucking wait to go home. Perhaps home needed some repairing, but it would happen. He, Tallulah, and Lissa had figured out something good and he’d fight to get it back. Harder than he’d ever fought for anything.
Thank God he had the perspective of someone in their late thirties—because the view from thirty-seven was valuable as hell. Happiness didn’t just appear out of thin air; a man had to search for it, cultivate it, and guard it with their life. Someone like Tallulah wouldn’t come along again. Ever. He’d found someone who slowed down time and made him feel immortal. Someone who believed in him. Someone he believed in, too. He’d been going through the motions for years; now suddenly there was determination in his chest to take her places, show her things . . .
Be alive with her.
Love her.
As if he could do anything but. Love and Tallulah were interconnected. There couldn’t be one without the other. Love was her. She was love.
Someday, he’d walk through the door of the apartment, drop his bag. There would be an amazing aroma hanging in the air, whether it was takeout or Tallulah broke her rule again about not cooking. Tallulah and Lissa would look up from the kitchen table and smile at him, both of their homework spread out all over the place. He’d kiss Lissa on the top of the head, drop another on Tallulah’s perfect shoulder, and he’d watch and listen and absorb them.
His home.
Someday.
The opposing offense sliced down the ice and Burgess forcibly got his head in the game, registering the spreading formation of a center and two wings bearing down on him. Keeping his eye on the puck as it was passed, positioning himself between the net and the left winger, who was already taking the shot. No time to stop it, but Burgess blocked the progress with his body, the puck rebounding off his pads onto the ice. His back was only a foot from the goal now and everyone swarmed at once, the Bearcats trying to get the puck out of the danger zone, the other team trying to press their advantage of already having gotten past the defense.
Burgess found the puck among the sea of skates and sticks, looking for a sliver of daylight through which to fire it—and there it was. He blasted it out, away from the net. The crowd’s collective roar of disappointment only fed his aggression, and he skated after the puck, his job far from over. He had a rare moment of being out in the open with no one around him, the puck sliding toward the boards, bouncing off. He reared back with his stick, Sig approaching in his periphery. That was his target.
Burgess’s stick never connected with the puck.
The moment the left wing slammed into him from behind and bashed him up against the boards, a blinding pain streaked through his lower back. Not a twinge, not a throb or a twist. This was a rip. A dislocation. A satanic level of misery that tore the breath out of his lungs and numbed his legs so completely that he couldn’t stop himself from dropping. At first, the opponent provided enough support to keep him upright, but as soon as they skated back toward the other end of the ice, there was nothing to prevent gravity from doing its job.