Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
But who you are is unapproachable, a voice whispers darkly in me.
My own voice from inside my fucking skull. Annoying voice.
It follows me as I text with my parents while I jog. Still thinking about those bagels from last week. A good son would send them every day, Dad teases. Mom replies with A great son would send my favorite Italian food for dinner.
I write back with one word: Done.
Then Mom says she was just kidding and tells me to kick butt tonight.
I always do, I reply then I finish my workout, put on my pads, and lace up. But the voice chases me as I hit the ice for warm-ups, stretching my hammies, hips, and inner thighs, then shuffling back and forth in the crease before my teammates take easy shots on goal.
I don’t smile as they shoot at me. Why would I? No one wants an approachable goalie. You don’t stop goals by being approachable. You stop them with grit, glower, determination, and absolute unapproachability.
That’s really what the team pays me for, and I intend to deliver that tonight. I dial up the unapproachability way past ten once the puck drops.
No one wants a nice guy guarding the net when we’re down a man in the second period when one of our defenseman, Hugo Bergstrand, winds up in the box for holding.
This is when Chicago will be hungriest. The second the power play begins, the Chicago center attacks the net, but I block the puck cleanly with my leg pad. It bounces sharply to their winger, who skates around the back of the net, and I track him like a hawk.
Just try me, fucker.
When he comes around again, he takes a shot, but it doesn’t stand a chance. I lunge for it, pushing off the posts while scanning the action in the zone. There’s Ryker Samuels nearby, but down by center ice is Bryant.
Open. Ready. A long shot.
Fuck it. I go for it, slapping the puck and making a long pass to him. There’s barely a chance, but like the brilliant motherfucker he is, Bryant grabs it and tears down the ice, hell-bent on the visitors’ net, where he lifts his stick and holy shit.
He sends it rushing past their goalie. The lamp lights.
“Yes! Fucking yes,” I shout.
Asher flies by. “Nice assist!”
We go on to win the game, proving my point. Don’t need to be nice to get the job done. In the tunnel, I’m ripping off my helmet right as the beautiful blonde who I swear I am not trying to spend extra time with strides toward me.
“Did you know the average goalie scores zero to three assists in a season? A season, Lambert,” she says, sounding pleased with her research.
“That so?”
“It’s so rare when a goalie gets one, it’s the kind of thing that would be worth giving a quote to the press about.” Her voice pitches up with hope. Damn, she’s sexy when she’s hopeful. Which means she’s sexy all the time. She tilts her head, the sleek ponytail bobbing to the side. “You could even, say, gee, exactly what I just said to them. Just use my words. Easy-peasy.”
She’s sing-song, selling this talk-to-the-press idea to me.
Like I’d bend that easily that soon. Besides, Everly wouldn’t want me to. Everly expects the volley. She’d think I was an imposter if I didn’t give her a ferocious game of ping-pong. No way am I backing down so soon.
I flash her a smile as my teammates walk down the hall around us. “But wouldn’t you rather put a pic of me and my man Bryant on my social and say just that?” I drape an arm around my friend who nabbed the goal itself.
She huffs, then mutters a “fine” as she lifts her phone.
Ha. I won that round, wiggling out of talking to the press even when I really should. It’s a once-in-a-blue-moon hockey event after all. But instead I pose with Bryant for a pic.
As I walk off, I feel a little cocky. Okay, a lot, so I say to her, “Score one for the goalie.”
“In what, Max?” she asks sweetly, innocently.
I spin around, trying not to get distracted by her pretty pink lips and those big, brown eyes that hold thousands of stories. Right now, they’re etched with a curiosity she can’t hide.
“In the game with the publicist,” I say.
“Oh, we’re playing a game now?”
“Sunshine, we’ve always been playing and you know it,” I toss back.
Wesley points his thumb toward the locker room. “I’m heading off. You two maybe should get a room.”
Best to ignore that comment as he trudges down the hall. I turn my focus back to Everly.
“I thought we were playing a game, so that’s why I made this move.” She swipes a polished silver nail along the phone, then spins the device around, showing me—The Real Max Lambert.