Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I sucked in a pained gulp of air and slowly rose, bracing one hand on my knee. Yeah, yeah, I was fine. Totally fine.
“You okay, Milligan?” someone asked.
The voice was warbled and sounded sort of far away. Not a good sign, but I wasn’t worried. I needed to sit for a minute and do something about my eye. Pronto.
“He’s fine.”
I glanced sideways and frowned. “What the fuck are you doing? Get away from me, asshole.”
Trinsky mirrored my pose, hunched over, hands on knees, his thick brow knit in confusion or triumph…I couldn’t tell which.
“Well…what’s the verdict? Do you like Cheerios or not?”
I growled. “You’re a fucking idiot, Trinsky.”
“Maybe. But I’m an idiot with one more point on the ol’ scoreboard and I—oh, shit.” His handsome face faded out of focus. “You’re bleedin’, dude.”
“I’m not bleeding,” I huffed under my breath, pushing away from Trinsky and the wall.
I skated to my bench, flopped into the corner, and gingerly unfastened my helmet. Blood coated my fingers and dripped onto my jersey. Shit, it was a mess.
I was a mess. I was beat up, bruised, and probably out for the rest of the game. I gritted my teeth in frustration.
Fuck, I felt old. A few scrapes and a cheap shot or ten never used to slow me down, but this was becoming a recurring theme. I hadn’t played my best today…or last night or during the previous game. To be perfectly honest, it was freaking me out. Was this the beginning of the end? It couldn’t be. I wasn’t ready to retire.
I was only thirty-two, and yeah, in hockey years, that was practically ancient, but Trinsky was older, and I refused to retire before that asshat. No way. Not happening.
I had to dig deep and fix whatever was wrong with me and—I froze, bent over my skates, my head throbbing. Shit. Had I really referred to Trinsky as “handsome” in my head?
Ew. What the actual fuck?
I shot a surreptitious glance at the ice and spotted Trinsky battling for the puck on the opposite side of the rink. He had broad shoulders, muscular thighs, and under all that gear, the guy was covered in tattoos. I was your garden-variety closeted bi guy, but Trinsky wasn’t my type. It was a personality thing…in that he had a terrible one. He was pompous, pigheaded, and he loved the sound of his voice.
God, I hated that fucker.
So if my subconscious had accidentally put him in the “handsome” column, that was just another sign that I was off my game, off my rocker, just…off.
I untied my laces and sat up in time to see Trinsky wrestle the puck free and pass it to Mellon, who sped away and charged for our goal…again. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, willing my teammates to rally and do something—anything.
Maurice, our trainer, hustled toward me with a towel and a compress. “Are you dizzy or light-headed?”
“No, it’s just a cut,” I replied absently, my gaze locked on Trinsky.
He was graceful for a big man, but no, he was not handsome. His jaw was too square, his eyes were a weird shade of green, and he couldn’t seem to commit to a beard, so he was always scruffy. And had I mentioned that the guy loved being the center of attention? Because that could not be emphasized enough. Trinsky had the funniest jokes, knew the best restaurants, and had supersized opinions about everything from jock straps to grape jelly.
Trust me, I didn’t want to know this much about someone as irritating as Trinsky, but I didn’t have a choice. We both volunteered at Elmwood’s junior camp.
And let me be clear, Elmwood was my hometown. I’d grown up in the Four Forest area and had been there when Vinnie Kiminski and his best friend, Ronnie, had launched the international hockey camp in our little area of Vermont. I’d been one of the first kids to attend and who could legitimately claim to have been coached by some of the most talented athletes in the sport.
Trinsky was just an opportunistic punk and a—
“You need stitches.”
I jolted. I was so deep into my Trinsky spiral that I’d forgotten about my eye. “Oh. Right.”
Maurice motioned for me to follow him. This was usually where I’d argue that a Band-Aid would work, but I needed space or whatever it took to get Trinsky off my brain.
What was wrong with me?
The press debated the same thing.
I fiddled with the button on my suit coat and pasted a smile on my face for the barrage of reporters waiting for me after the game, microphones primed and ready.
“How are you feeling, Jake?”
“There’s speculation that you might have sustained another concussion. Is that true?”
“Is your eye okay? Looks like you have a few stitches.”
Cameras clicked and flashed. It was claustrophobic in the corridor, but as much as I would have loved to elbow my way to the exit, this was part of my job.