Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Of course Dom is in a good mood.
He always is, win or lose. Some people are built differently and not necessarily in a good way—not him though. Life of the party, shoulder to lean on, hype beast all the way.
And normally, I’m always down for a good time.
Blanco’s is a chic steakhouse with a dark, moody bar. The owner keeps it closed for the team after home games so it doesn’t get overrun by fans looking for autographs or selfies. The food is great, the drinks are better, and the atmosphere is perfect for blowing off steam without being watched like a zoo exhibit.
Tonight? The last thing I need is to get drunk and stew in my own mediocrity.
I sucked.
“Nah. No thanks,” I mutter, standing up and slinging my massive bag over my shoulder. The weight of it feels good—a reminder I still exist in the real world, even if I’m walking out of it with my tail between my legs. “Not tonight.”
Dom frowns. “Aw, come on. You’re not gonna leave me stuck with LeBlanc and Petrov, are you? Those two can’t hold a conversation to save their lives.”
I roll my eyes, halfway to the door. “Sounds like a you problem.”
His laughter follows me out, light and easy in a way that makes me want to turn around and punch him square in his stupid, gap-toothed grin.
I’m not in the mood for his good mood.
The cold air hits me as soon as I step outside, biting at my skin and cutting through the lingering haze of sweat and frustration. The parking lot is nearly empty, shadows stretching long under the flickering overhead lights.
My car sits alone near the far end, a beacon of solitude I can’t decide if I’m grateful for or resentful of. I toss my bag into the trunk with more force than necessary, the satisfying thud echoing in the still night air.
Blanco’s would be easy. A couple of drinks, some laughs, and I could’ve pretended, for a little while, I’m not the reason we’re on a losing streak. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Pretending only gets you so far.
I climb into the driver’s seat and sit there for a moment, staring at the dashboard. The silence feels heavier out here, away from the team, the locker room, the noise.
For a split second, I consider texting someone—anyone—to avoid going home and being alone with my negative thoughts. But I shake my head, shoving the idea aside.
This is the third game in a row I’ve played like shit—the weight of the entire team on my shoulders—and tonight the realization I may not be strong enough to carry it hits me square between the eyes.
I don’t deserve distraction tonight.
I deserve to be miserable.
I need to be home.
Soak in the hot tub.
Sleep it off.
If I can’t figure out how to get my act together soon, I’m not only letting the team down—I’m letting myself down, too.
No sooner am I throwing my bag down in the front entry of my penthouse than my phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t have to look to know who it is. Only one other person besides my teammates would bug me.
Nova.
My twin sister has a sixth sense when it comes to me being in a funky mood. Like clockwork, she knows the exact moment I step through my front door.
Nova: Hey loser. How you holding up?
I sigh, regretting I haven’t muted her notifications by now.
Me: Define ‘holding up.’
The response is almost instant, as if she’s been waiting with her thumbs poised over the keyboard.
Nova: Yikes. That bad?
I don’t reply straight away. Instead, I toss my car keys on the counter, grab a water from the fridge, and let the cool condensation roll over my palm as I lean against the counter.
I flex the hand that has been stuffed in my goalie glove for the past few hours.
Nova: Wanna talk about it?
I smirk humorlessly at the screen. Nova always wants to talk about it—as if me spilling my guts is the answer to all my problems.
Talking.
Ha. Good luck.
Me: Not really.
I take a long drink of water, anticipating her next message.
Nova: Too bad. I’m coming over.
I almost spit out the water.
Me: NO. Don’t.
Nova: I’m already in the elevator.
Of course she is. Why do I bother anymore?
I groan, glancing toward the door as if I can will her to stay in the elevator and take it back down to her floor. Pfft. No chance of happening. Nova isn’t persistent—she’s relentless.
Have I mentioned my sister lives in the same building? In a swanky little apartment I purchased several floors below mine. It’s not the penthouse—that is all mine—but it’s too big for a petite girl like her, with panoramic windows and a skyline view.
She calls it “our building” as if she’s got some kind of equity stake in the place.