Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I shake my head, looking around the crowded concourse. Two giggling girls in number seventeen jerseys walk by, and I wonder if Eric is in the locker room right now, feeling as queasy as I am, but for entirely different reasons.
Taylor and Poppy take their food and we go into the packed arena. We climb down the steps and stop at row A, almost directly behind the bench.
“Good seats,” Taylor murmurs.
He isn’t wrong. I can almost reach out and touch the players if the glass wasn’t in the way.
By the time the music starts to blast and the spotlights swirl on the ice, I’m a ball of nerves.
Just be happy for him.
You’ve come to wish him well.
And closure, whatever that means.
Everyone around us erupts into cheers as our team skates out.
I scan the ice just as Poppy finds him and jiggles my arm. “There he is! Boooo!”
I scoff. “Stop that. He’s on our team.”
She rolls her eyes. “I thought we were hating on him.”
Taylor smirks. “Cheer the team now; hate on him later.”
The next time Eric loops around, my palms sweat.
He doesn’t raise his head to the audience, so I don’t have to think about him noticing me. He’s focused on the game.
Not nervous, like me.
Boone saw me on campus recently and mentioned that Eric had quit for one game. I’m glad he’s back where he belongs. Something swells inside me. Pride. Even if he doesn’t care about me in the same way, I’m happy for him.
I lean forward as Eric skates down the ice with the puck. He dodges a hit, spins around behind the goal, then slams the puck to Reece who scores. Instantly, we’re on our feet and jumping up and down as the siren blares.
At the last intermission, the game is tied as the players file off the ice.
Eric still doesn’t come close to looking at me.
After the Zamboni does its magic and the players filter back onto the ice, I stand up and rattle the glass. “Go Lions!”
But as time ticks down to the two minute-warning, there’s still no goal on either side. My eyes alternate between checking the seconds ticking down on the overhead clock and the game.
Finally, Eric skates out for his last shift in regulation. I lean forward as he and another player hit the boards, hard, not two yards from me. They grapple, sticks click-clacking together, trying to free the puck.
In the middle of the tussle, his eyes suddenly shift up . . . higher, higher . . . and meet mine.
He pushes off the opposing player, and maybe I imagine it, but I swear he smiles at me.
And then he’s off, puck glued to his stick, heading for the opposing team’s goal before his opponent even realizes he’s gone.
I know the buzzer is coming. Just as the final seconds hit, Eric pulls his stick back and fires a shot that cracks through the arena like a whip. Pow.
The goalie dives and misses.
Goal!
The crowd roars louder than ever and I yell with them. Taylor and Poppy and I hug, then hug the strangers behind us.
On the ice, the players are hugging.
I’m sure Eric’s at the center of it, getting adoration he deserves.
“Hey.”
I turn around and there he is, pressed against the glass right in front of me. My heart skitters in my chest as I take him in, still breathless and sweaty.
He left the team for me.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he calls.
I can’t help smiling. “Wanted that present.”
He points his glove. “Meet me over there. In front of the locker rooms.”
He skates away as the crowd cheers and the Lions shake hands with the opposing team.
“You need us?” Taylor asks as we exit our row. He gives me an arm squeeze.
“No, I can handle this.”
They leave, smiling at me.
I get to the hall to the locker room but can’t go any further because of the security guard. Eric taps him on the shoulder and points at me.
“That’s Julia Lauren.” His eyes capture mine. “She’s with me. Always let her pass.”
The guard nods and steps aside and I walk down the hall toward him.
I stop a few feet away, my hands tight against the strap of my purse. I drink him in. The fire in his eyes. The exhilaration from his win.
“Julia . . .” He pauses and exhales.
“Yes?”
He tosses off his gloves and takes my hand. “Will you give me half an hour to get changed? Just wait here for me?”
How can I say no?
I nod jerkily.
He lifts one of his hip pads and pulls out a Ziplock. Unzipping it, he tugs out a piece of paper. “This isn’t your gift. It’s, um, something I wrote, sort of as a way to explain.” He leans against the wall as he toys with the paper. “Will you read it? While I’m showering?”
“Why?”
“I don’t think I can handle it if you read it in front of me.”