Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Which, I guess, it was.
He skates backward, head on a swivel, and I wait for him, wanting to see the exact second he notices me.
And wait…
And wait.
My brother notices first, lifting his stick from his place in the goal box, oblivious to the fact I am not here to watch him, specifically.
I give him a lazy wave.
The puck drops and the Baddies explode into motion, charging down the ice with a lethal combination of power and grace that makes it impossible to look away. I don’t bother to pretend I’m not homing in on Luca and the way his helmet frames his stupidly handsome face.
He hasn’t noticed me yet.
Why would he? I did not tell him I would be here…
I watch him in a way I never have before; this is different. More meaningful—he has been in my home, my bed, my body. I’m learning more about him and haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since he sat in my kitchen eating that lemon chicken.
Luca is beautiful like this.
He slashes past a defender, feints right, then flicks a pass across to the goalie who catches it in his glove before it hits the net. Baddie fans boo. My brother throws both fists in the air, grinning like the teenage kid who spent all his free time on the ice.
I clap with the crowd.
Cheer.
My eyes, however, are glued to Luca.
The play crashes toward our end of the rink, fast and chaotic, and then—
Boom.
Luca gets leveled.
The hit slams him straight into the glass, right in front of me. The boards rattle under our knees. I gasp, heart in my throat, hand flying to my chest. His body is pressed up against the plexiglass, face twisted in pure instinct and adrenaline. He blinks hard, breath fogging the inside of his helmet.
And then he sees me.
His eyes go wide. Like actually wide.
For a split second, he just stares—completely frozen—like the sight of me knocked the air out of him harder than the hit did. There's shock written all over his face, like I’m the last person he expected to see this close, in this crowd, in his world.
Then the moment cracks.
His brows tug together, confusion melting into something else—something sharp and burning and real.
The guy who hit him peels off. Luca doesn’t follow. He’s still looking at me like I just changed the score of the game without touching the puck.
Poppy leans in and whispers, “Oh shit—he was not expecting to see you.”
No, he wasn’t.
“The look on his face was all, ‘oh my gawd, my secret girlfriend came to watch me.’”
“Don’t call me that,” I whisper.
She raises her brows. “Don’t call you what? His secret girlfriend?”
Yes. “It sounds so…” Horrible. “Morally gray. And slightly pathetic.”
She snorts. “Please. You’re not pathetic. You’re thriving. Secret romance? Forbidden tension? Yes please!”
Poppy leans in closer. “Okay, be honest—you were totally hoping he would accidentally see you.”
I pause.
Nod.
“Fine. I was.”
Poppy beams like she just won a bet with herself. “I knew it.”
“You are so irritating,” I say, cheeks warming.
She shrugs, thrusting the pretzel and cheese in my direction. “I’m just proud of you.
Down on the ice, Luca is still clearly struggling to focus. He misses another pass. Fumbles his stick. Skates into his own teammate during a line change. The coach yells something unintelligible and Luca waves a hand like yeah yeah, I know, but his eyes keep flicking toward the boards.
Toward me.
Poppy munches on pretzel. “You broke his brain.”
The feeling is mutual.
He lifts his face mask and his gaze scans the crowd. I don’t bother pretending I’m not staring as my eyes meet his eyes through the glass, pulse thrumming in my throat like a war drum.
There it is.
That look.
I see you.
My bestie lets out a low whistle. “Honestly? If he looks at you like that any harder, he’s gonna melt through the ice.”
I press my thighs together and pretend to care about the scoreboard.
Luca’s lips twitch into a ghost of a smirk—for a second—before he yanks his helmet down a little lower and turns his attention back toward the ice.
There’s a whistle from the ref, and the players begin coasting toward their respective benches for a time-out. I sit back in my seat, just about to make a sarcastic comment about how badly the Baddies need to get their crap together—
When my brother turns on his skates and heads straight for the boards.
Straight for me.
“Oh no,” I hiss.
Poppy’s eyes widen. “Abort. ABORT.”
“I can’t go anywhere! We’re seated!”
Gio skates over, casual as anything, tapping the end of his stick against the glass like it’s no big deal. I sit up straighter, tucking the hoodie tighter around me and praying to every hockey god in existence that he doesn’t recognize it.
“NOVA!” he shouts through the glass, helmet askew, cheeks flushed. “Hey!”
I smile like a totally normal sister who is definitely not hooking up with one of his teammates behind his back. “Hey! Good game!”