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)
The way he says my name sends chills down my spine.
Easy, girl. You’re trapped in a closet with a stranger. This is not the time or place to get all hot and bothered.
Wait. My mouth drops open. I’m trapped in a closet, and my libido is working?
This is new to me.
I’ve never felt anything but complete fear when locked in enclosed spaces.
I look over at Hudson.
What about you is different?
Sure, he’s stupidly cute. With gorgeous dirty-blond hair that looks brown at certain angles, crystal-blue eyes you can get lost in, and a killer body that would make me feel tiny under it.
But I’ve met many hot men.
Hell, most of the team regularly graces the center spreads of Sports Illustrated.
And still, I have never, ever thought of anything but suffocating behind a closed door in a small space.
He’s the first person who has made me feel like maybe the walls aren’t here to trap me.
Maybe—just maybe—they’re here to protect me.
3
Hudson
I don’t know how long we sit there.
I didn’t bring my watch, and if I check my phone, it will just piss me off that I’m going to be late for warm-ups. It’s the twenty-first century, and engineers still haven’t managed to douse the earth with proper cell service.
Instead, I concentrate on helping Molly.
I’m about to speak when a creaking sound echoes in the small space, followed by a crash as the metal door bangs into the wall.
I jump to my feet and spin to see an older woman in a stadium uniform standing in the doorway, mouth open as she meets my gaze.
“My God, thank fuck,” I say before turning to look at Molly.
“I’m fine.” She shoos me away with a wave of her hands. “Go.”
I don’t think twice. Too much time has passed, and I’m sure Coach will be pissed.
I bolt from the small space, adrenaline pumping through my veins. Warm-ups should be starting soon. There’s no question. This is bad. Real bad. Not only am I still in my street clothes, but if everyone else is dressed and ready, I won’t be able to warm up with them.
I dash toward the locker room, but I don’t even make it inside before I realize how truly fucked I am. Half the team is already walking in the opposite direction toward the rink. The air crackles with tension as a few of my new teammates spare me disapproving glances and shake their heads.
Some look amused. Others annoyed. A few—like Dane fucking Sinclair—look ready to murder me on the spot.
There’s not even a second to soak in my success.
I made it to the NHL.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted. The only real goal I’ve ever had in life.
Fine. Even super late and in my street clothes, I can’t help but give myself a moment to soak it in and—
“Where the hell have you been?”
The voice slams through the tension like a bulldozer.
Shit.
I might not know him well yet, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize who that voice belongs to and that I’m about to get my ass handed to me.
I pivot slightly to meet the owner of the voice head-on, and just as I suspected, it’s Coach Robert.
“Well, well.” He strides to me, his expression carved from stone. His voice drips with sarcasm as he continues, “Look who decided to bless us with his presence.”
I wince. I’ve been here all of two minutes, and I’ve already managed to piss off the man who controls my ice time. Not great.
He weaves through players, stopping just short of me. “You think you can just waltz in here late?”
My heart begins to race, guilt mixing with panic. “Coach, I—”
“Save it.” He holds up a hand, and I swear the hallway gets colder. “I don’t care if your dog ate your alarm clock or if aliens abducted you. The only thing I care about is the fact that you’re late.”
I stand there, clutching my gear bag like a scolded kid. The weight of every player’s stare burns into my skin.
It takes everything in me not to hop from foot to foot. “But I—”
“This is professional hockey, Wilde.” Coach plants his feet, his eyes hard, the message clear. “No excuse will make this okay.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again—”
“You’re damn right it won’t.” Coach starts to pace, a predator in this confined space. “I don’t care if you were the top player in the minors, the second coming of Gretzky, or the goddamn tooth fairy. When I say show up, you show up. Got it?”
I know what I should say.
That I should keep my head down and mutter got it. Anything to appease him.
But I can’t.
I grew up in a fair household. One with parents who valued honesty and always listened when I had something to say.
Like an idiot, I try to explain.
“I was locked in a closet,” I blurt out.