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)
Eyes closed, I try to calm my racing heart. My jaw chatters from the cold. Or maybe it’s the nerves.
A roar of cheers shatters my quiet solitude. It fades a moment later, leaving me alone with the thought of my monster looming over me.
He’s here.
He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop the way I shake.
“I’m just cold,” I try to tell myself, my teeth chattering between each syllable. “It’s not because of him.”
I’m stronger now . . .
But even my strength can’t stop the shadows from creeping in when the lights go out.
The faint shuffle of footsteps behind me sends a jolt down my spine. My body locks tight like a coiled spring.
Please, not now.
I don’t want to talk to anyone.
Please, don’t see me.
I close my eyes, willing whoever it is to leave.
Don’t let it be him.
It can’t be him.
It has to be him.
I’m spiraling. I know I am. But no matter how hard I try, my head and heart no longer feel tethered to reality. It’s too late. The monster struck and won. I’ve flung the door to my brain wide freaking open, and now all my intrusive thoughts batter their way in.
He found you.
A footstep closer.
Another one.
My body clenches.
My breathing stops.
I brace for impact.
Warmth.
All I feel is warmth.
My eyelids fly open at the sound of the door opening and closing nearby.
I peer over my shoulder, searching for the stranger. But I’m alone.
No one is here.
Did I make it up?
But it’s warm. So warm.
My fingers brush against the fabric draped over my shoulders.
It’s thick and worn and smells like pine trees.
A jacket.
Whoever it was left me a jacket.
SEASON ONE
1
Hudson
Don’t fuck this up.
My heart thunders like I drank too much coffee or took speed.
Neither actually happened, but here I am, pacing the large arena, needing to calm down.
Today is important. It’s my first game with the Redville Saints. Hence why I’m a fucking mess.
Get out of your head, Wilde.
It’s not like this is my first game.
But it’s your first game in the NHL.
My hands start to shake at my sides.
Shit.
I can’t walk into the locker room for my first game, shaking like a pussy.
My eyes scan the vast space, landing on a door just up and to the left of the large hallway.
I should head to the locker room and get myself sorted. I came early to do just that, but I still need a second to myself.
Crossing the distance, I see that the door is half open already. Fuck. Hopefully, no one is in there.
Fuck it. I can’t risk seeing anyone I know now. It’s either get caught by however many people can fit in a tiny closet or however many can fit in the giant locker room.
I step inside the room, pulling the door closed at the same time.
The second it shuts behind me, I take a deep breath and survey my surroundings.
Just as I thought. A storage closet.
There’s shit everywhere.
Great location, Wilde.
Couldn’t have picked a better spot to gather your thoughts.
Just as I’m about to turn around and find a bathroom or something, I hear a sound.
I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out where it came from. Then I hear it. A grunt. A deep sigh follows the grunt. I’m not alone in this storage closet.
Fucking fantastic.
It would be just my luck to stumble into a new teammate jerking off on my first day here. Nothing screams great first impression like trauma bonding over some perv’s idea of a game-day warm-up routine.
I shut my eyes, debating whether I’m curious enough to investigate. To see or not to see? My curiosity wins out, and I weave around a shelf, spotting someone in the far corner, wedged between stacks of discarded hockey sticks and cleaning supplies.
She’s bent over at the waist.
And just like that, the nerves are gone.
My hands don’t shake.
My mind stops racing.
My heart rate, however, picks up for an entirely different reason.
Holy shit, this girl has an ass. It’s probably not the most polite reaction, yet I can’t help but stop where I’m standing and stare.
Since my timing obviously sucks, she chooses that exact moment to look up.
“Seriously? Creeper.”
“What?” I raise my hands in the air, feigning innocence. “Can’t hate a guy for looking.”
“Actually, I can.” She straightens up, then spins to face me, her arms crossed.
If I thought her ass was nice, it’s got nothing on her face. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
If this is how I go out—trapped in a closet before I even play my first pro game—I can’t complain.
She’s stunning in a way that doesn’t feel real. Like someone plucked her straight out of my dreams and dropped her into my lap.
She looks young, probably around my age, early twenties, but there’s something timeless about her.
Long brown hair spills over her shoulders, catching the light. Her skin glows, flawless and warm, and her lips. . .