Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
I chuckle and glide away, glancing toward the stands. I know exactly where she’s sitting—first row, right near the bench. Rafferty had mentioned getting tickets for Tempe, her younger brother Cooper, and Cooper’s friend Danny, and when Farren showed up out of the blue today, he got her a ticket too. It was a bit of an acting feat to look surprised when he mentioned she was here because I could never tell him the truth that Farren had already texted me.
My eyes sweep the seats, searching. It doesn’t take long to spot her. Farren’s glossy dark hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders and her blue eyes gleam under the bright lights of the arena. She’s stunning, her presence magnetic even from this distance. She’s laughing at something Tempe’s said, the sound almost audible in my mind. Her laughter is something I’ve replayed more times than I should admit.
Farren Abrams.
Rafferty’s little sister.
Correction… my teammate’s little sister.
I grit my teeth as I glide into another lap, my stick dragging the ice idly. We’ve hooked up twice now. The first time was during one of her earlier visits to Pittsburgh—a drunken, spur-of-the-moment mistake after a night out with the team. But the second time… the second time, I knew exactly what I was doing. She texted me, and I didn’t hesitate. No alcohol, no excuses—just her, me, and a connection I can’t seem to shake.
I flick a puck toward the boards, watching it bounce back before I gather it on my stick again.
This thing with Farren?
It’s complicated.
She’s fun, carefree, and absolutely gorgeous, but she’s also fiercely independent. In the time we’ve gotten acquainted, she’s said enough for me to know that she’s allergic to anything resembling commitment. Although the sex is the driving force between us, we’ve spent a lot of time talking and have kept in loose contact via text the last several weeks. I’ve been learning how her mind works and her absolute lack of desire to enter into anything serious is utterly fascinating. She’s a woman content to keep a casual connection and use it only when it feeds her mood. Maybe that’s part of what draws me to her—the challenge, the unpredictability, the fact that she’s completely different from anyone I’ve been with before.
Still, I know I’m playing with fire. She’s Rafferty’s sister, and Raff’s the type of guy who would take a fist to anyone who even thought about crossing a line with her. But Farren is an adult, as am I. She’s the one setting the boundaries, keeping things casual. She’s in no danger of getting hurt and I think that’s what would matter the most to her brother if we were ever found out.
I weave through a cluster of players, my eyes drifting back to the seats. Rafferty picks up a loose puck and skates toward the boards. His focus is on Cooper, the kid’s face lighting up as Raff flicks the biscuit over the glass. Cooper catches it, his grin wide enough to rival the goal light when it flashes. Rafferty smirks, taps the glass with his stick, and skates away.
My gaze shifts back to Farren. She’s clapping for Cooper, her smile wide and genuine. When she finally glances toward the ice, her eyes meet mine. The connection is instant, like a spark catching dry kindling. She doesn’t look away, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. There’s a promise in her eyes, one that sends heat flooding through me.
I swallow hard, my hands tightening on my stick. Damn her. Damn her for being so irresistible and for making this so damn complicated.
I skate past the bench, my pulse hammering in my ears. Maybe it’s best to keep this between us for now. Farren doesn’t want anything serious, and I’m not looking to blow up my friendship with Rafferty. On the other hand, ending it would be the safe bet all the way around.
But as I circle back toward center ice, her gaze lingers on me, and I know this isn’t something I can walk away from—not yet.
For now, I have a game to play before I can even think about unraveling the mystery of Farren Abrams.
♦
This Titans team is a masterpiece of talent, headlined by the best player in the league, Penn Navarro. But tonight, my second line is on fire and Foster has already scored a goal in the first period.
The play starts deep in our zone, and I’m reading the ice, anticipating the next move. Camden scoops up a loose puck after the Phantoms botch a cycle along the boards. He glances up ice, his eyes darting left before he whips the puck to Atlas, who’s breaking hard down the wing.
I kick into gear, driving up the right side, my skates cutting into the ice with purpose. Atlas takes the puck cleanly over the blue line, barely breaking stride. He dangles past a Phantom defender like the guy’s a practice cone, smooth and controlled. Foster is gliding down the middle, always in the perfect spot to keep the defense guessing.