Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
After finishing our tea and scones, we gather up our things and step outside. The sharp bite of the wind steals the last traces of warmth from my skin as we make our way toward the arena. The closer we get, the louder everything becomes. The traffic, conversations, and rush of the city coming to life around us.
By the time the glass doors slide open, the comfort of the bakery feels miles away. The warmth disappears entirely the moment we step inside the rink. The cold hits my lungs like a warning. The scrape of blades and the crash of players feel too much like the world I’m standing in. One wrong step, one slip, and everything could come tumbling down.
Steel slices across the ice in long, clean strokes as the players move in fluid lines, sticks clacking against pucks, skates carving into the smooth surface.
The head coach barks instructions. Every mistake is called out, every lazy stride corrected.
We settle in the first-row seats against the glass, and the impact vibrates through me every time a player collides with the boards. Sweat glistens on their faces as they push harder, drills increasing in speed and brutality under Coach Cole’s watchful eye.
The energy on the ice is a mix of focus and tension. It’s the kind of intensity that makes it impossible to look away.
A few minutes later, Laiken steps out of the goal, skating toward the bench for water. He strips off his gloves, fingers flexing as steam rises faintly from his gear in the chill of the rink. When he pulls off his helmet, damp hair falls in messy waves across his forehead, sticking slightly from sweat.
He tips the bottle back, throat working as he guzzles it down. Water spills over the chiseled line of his jaw before he wipes it away with the back of his hand. The movement is rough, like he couldn’t care less who’s watching.
Beside me, Kia stills as her fingers tighten around her cup. “Who’s that?”
“Laiken Lennox,” I tell her. “Our resident gruff goalie. Perpetually scowly, in case you haven’t noticed. Also, a fan favorite for obvious reasons.”
Her gaze doesn’t budge as she studies him under the arena lights. “Huh.”
I can’t help but grin. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that sounds suspiciously like appreciation.”
Color creeps into her cheeks. It’s a faint flush she tries to hide, though she doesn’t bother denying the comment.
As soon as I turn my attention back to the ice, my gaze catches on Oliver. He’s in constant motion, power and precision all rolled into one as he weaves with ease through the drill. Every stride is purposeful, every shot sharp and clean. Even in a sea of elite players, he stands out, commanding the ice as if he was born to own it.
My heart gives a traitorous twist. It doesn’t matter how much I remind myself of the risks or the potential fallout. One glance at him—at Ollie, not the Big O everyone else sees—and I know I’m already in deeper than I ever wanted to be.
The way he’s drawn me in so effortlessly is dangerous.
I keep telling myself I can stay objective.
Detached.
Yet every time I’m near him, it gets harder to believe my own lies.
A small voice inside me wonders if falling for him isn’t the failure I’ve been terrified of…
But maybe the start of something I never imagined could be mine.
34
Oliver
After practice, not only is the locker room loud, it reeks of liniment and damp gear. Steam from the showers hangs heavy while voices compete, the guys talking over each other as they discuss our next away game. Laughter ricochets off the tiled walls, punctuated by the clang of sticks hitting the floor.
I drop onto the bench and tug at the laces of my skates as the wet leather bites into my fingers. I’m still riding the endorphin buzz from practice when Jax’s low whistle cuts through the noise like a blade.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, his grin one of pure shit-stirring mischief as he waves his phone. “Look what Railers Rumors just posted.”
The laughter dies around us in patches, curiosity shifting like a ripple across the room. I don’t think much of it until Jax angles the screen my way.
As soon as I see it, my stomach nosedives. It’s the shot from yesterday, the one of Rina and me on the street.
The one I told her not to worry about.
I’ve got her pressed against the building, our faces close, hers tipped up toward mine, the flush in her cheeks impossible to miss. Her eyes are heavy-lidded and lips parted.
We’re not kissing, but we’re damn close.
Much too close to pretend otherwise.
My throat dries as my pulse spikes so fast, it’s almost dizzying. Every muscle in my body locks up, as if bracing for impact. The laughter and echoing noise around me dissolves. For a second, the whole room tunnels down to that one image. Her expression and the way my hand fits against her hip.