Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“Stone, get me out of here!” I shout, relieved to hear that my friend—and former Washington team mate—is outside. Stone won’t let me die in here and be eaten by whatever bacteria is growing in that stinky pile of towels.
I suck in a deeper breath, willing my pulse to stop racing. This is ridiculous. I have to calm the fuck down. I’m not in danger, and I don’t have claustrophobia…at least, I don’t think I do.
“Tank?” Stone asks, his voice closer.
“Yeah, the door slammed closed and locked behind me.” There’s sweat on my upper lip now, on the back of my neck, rolling down my spine as my heart continues to pound… “Please, tell me you know the code.”
“It’s supposed to be this one,” the fanboy security guard says. “But I can’t get it to work.”
“Gotcha. Maybe you need to press the pound sign after,” Stone mutters. A beat later, I hear beeps, a high-pitched chirp, and—praise baby Jeebus—the rasp of the lock opening.
I burst into the hall with a rush of breath. “Thanks, man. Fuck, what a relief.” Blinking in the brighter light, I squint first at the guard—who indeed looks like he’s about twelve—then at Stone, who looks like he’s been enjoying his summer off. His dark blonde hair is streaked with highlights and there’s a shit-eating grin on his deeply tanned face. “What?” I demand.
“Nothing,” he says, still grinning. “What’s that? Your emotional support goblin?” He nods toward my hand.
I glance down to see the Bucky toy I didn’t realize I was still holding clutched in my white-knuckle grip and shudder. It looks even more rabid under the fluorescents. I toss it back into the shadows over my shoulder before firmly shutting the door behind me.
“No, that’s the shit nightmares are made of.” I press a hand to my chest, where my heart is still pounding. “I think it was trying to give me a heart attack.”
“Sorry.” The guard smiles, revealing a mouthful of braces. Just how old is this guy? And when did management start hiring teenagers to guard the practice wing after hours? “I didn’t realize you had to press pound after the code.”
I dig the heel of my hand into my chest again. “It’s fine.”
Stone’s smile fades. “You okay, brother?”
I wince. “I think it’s just heartburn. Or…fuck, I don’t know. Guess I was a little more stressed about being locked in there than I thought.”
The kid blinks behind his glasses. “You should go get checked out. My dad had his first heart attack when he was only forty-three.”
“I’m not forty-three,” I grit out, tension coiling in my jaw. “I’m not even thirty.”
“He’s twenty-nine,” Stone offers as he puts a hand on my shoulder and starts down the hall, dragging me along with him. “A hard twenty-nine, but still…”
“Fuck off,” I groan past the burn in my chest.
“Nope,” Stone says cheerfully, “but you can feel free to explore peace and quiet while I take you to see Doc Peterson. Lucky for you, he stayed late to do my physical, so I’ll be clear to play in that charity tournament next week. If we hustle, we can catch him before he leaves.”
“I don’t need to see the doctor, I—”
“Save it for someone who doesn’t know you refuse to acknowledge weakness, even when you’re playing with a dislocated finger.” Stone pushes open the door to the stairwell, thanking the guard before we step inside. “Walk,” he adds to me at the foot of the stairs. “Or let me know if you’re still feeling yucky, and I can carry you, pumpkin. I can do that for you. No problem.”
“Fuck off,” I repeat as I start up the stairs.
I’m smart enough to know when I’ve been beaten.
Most of the time, anyway…
“Blood pressure is…168 over 98,” Doc Peterson announces ten minutes later, removing the cuff from my arm with a disapproving frown. “That’s hypertension territory, Theodore.”
I grimace at the use of my full name. No one calls me Theodore. I was Theo in school, Yo-Yo to my friends as a teen, LiBassi during my first stint in the NHL, and “Tank” ever since, a nickname I gave myself so I’ll never forget how I tanked my fucking life.
So that I’ll never be tempted to do it again…
“It’s just been a non-stop kind of day, doc,” I say, forcing a smile. “I probably didn’t get enough water, and I think I might have a touch of claustrophobia or something. I wasn’t a fan of being trapped in that equipment room.”
“Can’t blame you,” Stone says. “It smells like toxic socks in there.”
“Yes, but toxic socks don’t give you blood pressure like this,” the doctor counters, typing notes into his tablet. “And how’s that shoulder? Still giving you trouble?”
I resist the urge to roll the shoulder in question, refusing to show weakness in front of a man who could decide I’m not fit to play. “It’s fine. Hardly acts up at all anymore. I’m going to be in rock solid shape for training camp.”