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)
We’re unstoppable.
What a game.
I could tell Coach was watching me, so I played like my life depended on it, and in truth, it did.
The team needed a win, and we got it.
Thank fuck.
The bar is packed when we get there, filled with fans who probably got word that we’d be celebrating here. Cheers erupt when we walk in, and Mason starts hamming it up immediately, bowing like he just won an Oscar.
“Relax, man,” I mutter, elbowing him. “You’re gonna pull something.”
“You love it,” he declares, grinning as he makes his way to the bar.
The heavy door slams shut behind me. Once inside, my eyes adjust to the dim lighting.
The music isn’t too loud, which is why we picked this place. It’s quieter than most places around here.
I follow Mason, soaking in the vibe. This is my kind of night. I have a good feeling about this year. The team is solid.
Nothing can ruin this. Not even Molly Sinclair, who I spot across the room before I’ve even had my first drink.
She’s leaning against the bar, talking to the bartender, her arms crossed and her face set in that signature Molly scowl. With my post-win high, even she can’t bring me down.
I don’t know why, but seeing her here sends a thrill coursing through me. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. Or perhaps it’s because I know nothing she could say tonight will bring me down.
Feeling smug as hell, I grab my drink and make my way over.
Her sharp green eyes flick to me as I approach, and she lifts her drink in a mock salute.
I smirk, closing the distance between us with an arched brow. “And what are you drinking to?”
“Our anniversary.” Her tone is dry before she takes another sip.
I laugh, shaking my head at her. “I’m surprised you’re celebrating it.”
She tilts her chin up, her lips twitching with amusement. “Who says I’m celebrating? Maybe I’m commiserating.”
My hands lift in mock defeat. “Ouch.”
“Just keeping it real.”
Before I can reply, Mason steps up beside us, clapping me on the back. “Hudson, you’re late as always.”
“I carpooled with you,” I deadpan.
He shrugs. “I’ve never met a traffic jam before I met you.”
I roll my eyes, shooting a glance at Molly. “I guess . . . I’m hexed.”
Molly raises an unimpressed eyebrow, her mouth quirking up in a wry smile. “Not everyone can be skilled in being punctual.”
“Or maybe it’s something else,” I retort, narrowing my eyes at her.
Mason’s gaze bounces between us, his brow lifting in curiosity. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” Molly says too quickly, her voice a little too steady.
Mason catches on immediately, his lips curving into a knowing grin.
He turns to me with an easy nod. “Good game, man.”
“You too,” I reply, shaking off Molly’s jab as best I can.
From beside me, I hear Molly’s quiet laugh, and I swivel to face her. Her smirk is maddening, and it only grows when she sees my expression.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
She waves a hand lazily, rolling her eyes. “Just you two, patting each other on the backs and telling each other how amazing you are. It’s adorable.”
“Well—”
“Barf,” she interrupts, holding up her martini glass like a shield. “If you say you’re amazing, I’ll throw up.”
“We kind of are amazing,” I say, smirking despite myself.
Molly leans forward slightly, her expression unamused. “Were you watching the same game as me?” she deadpans.
My grin fades. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She turns to Mason, gesturing toward him with her drink. “I mean, Mason here was tight. He didn’t let one puck past him. On the other hand, you are lucky my brother’s got your back, and Slate is so skilled.”
“Did you not see my goal?” I ask, sliding up beside her. “Pretty sure they’ll be talking about it for weeks.”
Her gaze flicks to mine, unimpressed. “You mean the one that bounced off your shin guard? Real skill there, Wilde.”
I grin, unbothered. “Hey, a goal’s a goal.”
She snorts, turning back to her drink. “If you say so.”
“Don’t be jealous, Hex,” I tease, leaning closer so only she can hear. “It’s not a good look on you.”
She whips her head around, narrowing her eyes. “Jealous? Of what? Watching you stumble around the ice like a baby deer? Please.”
My grin falters for a split second, but I recover quickly. “Stumble? I had three assists tonight, Sinclair. That’s hardly stumbling.”
“Oh, congratulations,” she says, her tone dripping with mockery. “Maybe next time you’ll even manage to score.”
The dig lands harder than I expect, and before I can stop myself, I fire back. “Maybe next time you’ll manage to do something other than hang around the rink like some kind of . . . glorified babysitter.”
Her eyes widen, and I immediately regret the words.
“Molly, I didn’t mean—”
“Save it.” She cuts me off, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. “You’re too busy being the team’s golden boy to even realize how gross you are.”