Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Him or Mom. She’s still traveling with her husband but I’ve gone to see her in Colorado a few times in the past. It’s weird. Being an adult and going home for Christmas,” he says and maybe Wes is just contemplative tonight.
“Mine are coming here for the holidays. To see Christian and Liv and the babies of course,” I say, forgoing my plans for now since the time doesn’t seem right. “But I know what you mean. I feel lost in time when I go home. I lived at my parents’ house during the summers when I was getting my master’s, and then right up until I moved out here. And I just felt like, am I a kid or an adult?” But maybe this is a way to broach the topic subtly? “I really don’t want to go home if I don’t get a job here.”
That seems to snap his focus back to me. He gives me a steady look. “You’ll get one.”
Time is running out though. But I don’t say that. I say nothing because I don’t trust myself not to say how I feel.
“Will you go home?” he asks finally. “If you…don’t get one?”
Why are you asking? Where do you want me to go? What should I do? I say none of that though. “I don’t know. But maybe it’ll be fine if I do. They hardly noticed me growing up. I got used to it. There are benefits to being the invisible child,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
I half expect him to say I see you, but he turns quiet again as the song ends.
“Are you thinking about how much you hate dancing?” I ask.
He drags a hand roughly through his hair. “No, just thinking about the game tomorrow. Sorry. I’m not the best company tonight.”
“It’s okay.” I let my arms fall from his shoulders and take his hand, leading him back to the couch again. “What’s wrong?”
Another hard sigh. Another hand through his hair. “It’s New York. We’re playing them again, and that last game was rough. The last week has been rough. I want to do my best. I don’t think I have been lately.”
I hate that he’s hurting. I hate that he’s beating himself up. “You will,” I say, squeezing his hand, but when his phone buzzes on the table, he tenses, peering at the screen.
His father’s name flashes across it. He usually ignores his dad when we’re together, but this time he grabs it. Reads. Replies. Then puts it down. “He’s just telling me stuff about the game. He’ll be there.”
Oh. Nerves whip through me. “Should I not go?” Then another question swoops down. “Does he know about me?”
With a guilty look, Wes shakes his head. “No.”
For the first time, I feel like we’re out of step.
40
A TERRIBLE BOYFRIEND
Wesley
The crowd roars deep in the second period the next night, barking like dogs, the rallying cry for the Sea Dogs. But I block it out and focus on the thumping of my own pulse. Hell, it’s all I want to hear. If I listen any harder, I’ll hear that fucking voice of doubt again.
You don’t belong on the first line.
I grit my teeth as I skate hard toward New York’s goal, alongside Christian. But when Karlsson swarms him, trying to strip the puck, Christian flips it my way. I lunge for it, the stick connecting solidly. Since I’ve got an opening I slam it to the net. But instead of flying into the twine, the puck misses by inches.
Frustration boils inside me. It’s not the first time it’s happened tonight. I skate behind the net, and as I’m racing the other way, Karlsson catches up, getting too close. “First line pressure getting to you? It’s hard when you suck, isn’t it, Bryant?”
I want to kill him.
Instead, I skate furiously, the cold air stinging my cheeks as I try—I swear I try—to block out the doubts and frustrations echoing in my mind. I try not to look at center ice either. Don’t want to get distracted. By Josie. By my dad. By my own damn expectations haunting me every second. I’m grateful for the line change, and I try to calm my emotions when I’m on the bench. But during the next line shift, I miss another shot at the net, the puck sailing wide, and I curse under my breath.
Karlsson’s right there again, bumping into me, taunting. “I’d say better luck next time, but maybe better luck in the minors.”
He smirks, and it takes everything I have not to drop my gloves and pummel the asshole.
His insults aren’t even personal. It’s just who he is. It’s literally his job to talk trash, and it’s mine to take it. When I hop over the boards at the end of the shift, I pull off my gloves and hurl them on the floor in front of me on the bench. And that’s not like me either. I don’t fling shit. Coach arches a brow, more serious than I’ve ever seen him.