Series: Torn and Bound Duet Series by K. Webster
Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Brayden releases a harsh breath, his gaze searing into mine, as he contemplates what I’m asking. “Fine,” he finally says. “A truce… for the season.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m taking one for the team.”
We walk to our vehicles in silence, and just as I’m about to get inside my truck, Brayden calls out my name. “I’m going by the rink to run through some drills, if you want to join.” Without waiting for me to answer, he jumps into his SUV and takes off.
I’m not turning down any invitation he throws my way. Not ever again.
When we get to the arena, neither of us says a word. We stay silent as we get changed and lace up.
The second my skates touch the ice, my heart thumps against my ribcage.
Brayden throws me a stick and drops the puck, and even though it’s freezing inside, my body breaks out into a cold sweat, as if remembering the last time I played hockey. It’s been over a year since then. But this isn’t like then. I’m not actually playing, I’m just messing around.
Brayden skates toward me and passes the puck my way. “Let’s go,” he says, already skating backward toward the net. “One on one.” It’s a drill players do to work on their defensive skills.
I take off with the puck and skate toward him, trying to figure out which way he’s going to try to defend me. Predictably, he tries to take me to the outside, but because I’m already expecting it, I’m able to fake, which opens up the lane for me to shoot. I drive the puck straight into the net, as Brayden curses under his breath.
“Gonna have to try harder than that,” I tell him, grabbing the puck and passing it back to him. I forgot how good it feels to play, and my entire body is thrumming with pent-up adrenaline.
Brayden heads down the center and I stay on him. If he were doing this during a real game, I’d be yelling at him—everyone knows you don’t go center—but since we’re only fucking around, I let it go. When he realizes he won’t be able to pass me, he pivots, skating behind the net. I crash him into the boards and steal the puck. My heart is pumping in my chest, and my breaths are labored, reminding me how out of shape I am, but fuck if it doesn’t feel good to be able to get physical again.
“Oh, so that’s how you want to play,” he yells from behind me, his competitive side making its appearance. “Okay, game on.”
For the next twenty minutes, we take turns defending each other. With every possession, it gets more intense. More physical. More heated. Our focus turning to knocking each other down instead of trying to score. As if we’re taking the last eight years out on each other. And instead of saying the shit we need to say, we’re slamming each other into the boards.
I hate you.
I miss you.
You shouldn’t have left.
I regret it.
When he checks me extra fucking hard, sending me flying across the ice, I get up and do it back to him, only instead of him getting back up and starting again, he must reach his breaking point, because he chucks his stick and skates toward me, pulling his helmet off his head and dropping it onto the ice.
“What the fuck, man!” He shoves me against the wall as I take in huge gulps of air, trying to catch my breath. My lungs and heart screaming at me for going from zero to sixty.
I remove my own helmet and shove him away from me. “How was what I did any different than the last ten times you checked me?”
“You’re playing like an asshole,” he hisses. “If you got something to say, just say it.”
“I already did at the cemetery.” I step closer. Our eyes lock on each other, and it’s as if something in the air shifts, the tension suddenly growing thick. “I miss you.”
“No,” Brayden snaps. “You don’t get to miss me. You chose to leave.” He turns his back on me, and I grab his shoulder, flinging him around and pushing him against the boards. I don’t know what’s come over me, maybe it’s the conversation from earlier with Ashton… But I suddenly have the need to tell Brayden just how I feel.
“I miss you every fucking day.” We’re so close, our faces are only inches from each other, our chests touching as they both rise and fall in sync.
“I know I fucked up,” I tell him, “but I was young and scared…”
“We both were,” he barks. “But you ran.” He sighs. “I needed you and you ran. And then even after all that, when you needed me, when your fucking dad died, I still showed up. I had your back.”