Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
“They won’t.” My voice is firm. “I’ll make sure of it.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t.
I wish she understood.
This isn’t just about pride. It’s about survival—for me and for my family.
“Fine,” she says finally, her voice tight. “But if anything gets worse, you’re going to a doctor. Contract or no contract.”
“Deal,” I say, though we both know I don’t mean it.
For now, that’s enough.
After a minute, she breaks the silence. “Why did you do it?”
I open my eyes, meeting her glare. “Would you rather I let my dad do it?”
Her expression softens. “You’re impossible,” she mutters, sitting down beside me.
“As you’ve told me many times.” I grin despite the pain.
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t scare me like that again.”
“I’ll try not to.” I rest my head against the back of the couch.
As the exhaustion pulls me under, I feel her hand brush lightly against mine. When she touches me like this the pain doesn’t seem so bad.
85
Hudson
Bad idea.
Fuck, that was a bad idea.
All I did was tug at the straps of my gear . . . No big deal, right?
Except it is a big deal because now, my wrist I’ve been trying to rest screams in protest.
It’s been a week, but I guess I’m still not healed.
If that weren’t bad enough, the cold air in this damn rink is brutal. It feels like I’m being stabbed.
“You okay?” Molly asks.
“Fine,” I lie.
While I know I should tell her the truth—that my wrist feels like someone poured acid on it—I don’t. I pretend I’m okay. Healing beautifully.
I’m full of shit.
Molly sits on the bench a few feet away, bundled in one of my hoodies.
She looks adorable as always, drinking a steaming hot cup of coffee.
As cute as she is, she’s a drill sergeant. She’s watching me like a hawk, her brows furrowed. She’s trying to pretend she’s not worried.
She’s a bad liar. I’m not.
“You sure about this?” she asks, her voice soft but edged with concern.
“Yeah,” I lie, pulling on my gloves. The motion sends a fresh wave of pain up my arm, but I grit my teeth and keep going. “Just need to see where I’m at.”
Molly doesn’t look convinced. “Hudson—”
“I’m fine. I need to do this.”
Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue.
She knows better than to try.
The moment I step onto the ice, I feel better.
This is my sanctuary.
When I’m here, everything fades away.
But today, even the ice can’t quiet my brain.
I grip my stick and push off.
The first few strides feel good. But when I try to stickhandle, my left arm refuses to cooperate.
The puck slips away, skittering toward the boards, and I curse under my breath.
“Fuck.”
“Take it easy,” Molly calls from the bench.
I ignore her, skating after the puck and gripping my stick tighter.
The motion sends a searing pain through my arm.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My grip falters, the stick slipping in my hands.
This isn’t just bad. This is fucked.
I keep going, though.
I refuse to admit defeat.
So instead, like the genius I am, I push through the pain.
Passes, shots, drills—I can’t do shit.
Everything hurts.
Everything sucks.
I can’t play.
My body is betraying me.
By the time I’ve circled the rink for the third time, my arm is throbbing, and sweat is dripping down my face despite the cold.
I glance toward where Molly stands now, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes meet mine. Wow! Even at our worst, she’s never looked at me like this.
I’m screwed.
Molly is about to rip me a new one for pushing my body too hard.
I skate toward her slowly.
Each move feels harder than the last.
My breath comes out in short, painful gasps.
When I reach the bench, I lean on my stick, trying to mask how my legs shake.
“Hudson,” she says softly, stepping closer. “You’re done.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though we both know it’s a lie.
She shakes her head, her expression fierce. “No, you’re not. You’re hurt, and you’re pushing yourself too hard. Get off the ice.”
I want to argue and tell her I’m fine and need more time, but the words die on my tongue. She’s right. I know she’s right.
With a heavy sigh, I skate to the bench and sit down, pulling off my gloves and cradling my injured wrist.
Molly sits beside me, her eyes scanning my face like she’s trying to read my thoughts.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she says quietly. “You’re only going to make it worse.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I mutter, my voice bitter. “Practice starts in a week. If I can’t perform, I’m done.”
“Why are you pushing so hard? What’s going on? This is more than just about the team.”
My head dips down.
“Talk to me, Hudson.”
I let out a sigh. “It’s the farm.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid they’re going to lose it. I need the money to help them.”
Her hand brushes against mine, tentative but steady. “We’ll figure it out,” she says. “Together.”