Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
"Say something, Atlas," Noah growls. "Talk to me."
"I'm getting married. And there's a bird in the rafters."
His shoulders slump, relief and amusement washing through his expression. Before he can say anything, Coach Marrow, Miles, and Colter Bayliss skate up.
"Goddammit, Jacks," Coach kneels on the ice near my head. "If we have to bench you, you're going to wish you took more than a puck to the head. Where the fuck is your helmet?"
"He got distracted," Noah answers for me.
"By what this time?" Coach asks as if I'm a toddler who can't stay on task. Which is honestly fair. I spend half my time in a net, talking to my damn self. I get bored. Sue me. "We haven't even been on the ice five minutes."
"Can I help?" a dulcet voice asks. "I'm a nurse. Well, nearly."
"He got distracted by her," Noah mutters quietly.
"Nearly a nurse?" Colter nudges Miles. "That sounds ominous."
I ignore them, rolling my head to the side, seeking her out. She's a few paces behind Noah, her hood pulled back. Her short golden-brown hair is wild around her face, little pieces dancing from static. Without the hood, she's even more gorgeous, glowing from the inside out.
Little lines of worry furrow her brows. How the fuck can someone be adorable and sexy at the same time?
"Yes. Help," I rasp. "It hurts."
She steps forward instantly. Noah shifts over, giving her room to squeeze in. "Where is the pain worst?" she asks, dropping to her knees beside me.
"My balls."
"Jesus Christ," Colter mutters, choking on a laugh.
"Jacks!" Coach Marrow shoots me a death glare. At least, I assume he's shooting me a death glare. I don't look at him to confirm, but I feel his disapproving glower. For a man who just got married, he's awful cranky.
"Um, I think he has a concussion," Gabbi says, her cheeks turning pink. She holds up three fingers. "How many fingers?"
"One without a ring."
"What day is it?"
"The first day of the rest of my life."
Coach Marrow mutters a curse.
"Who is the president?"
"An asshole."
Gabbi's expression is rife with worry.
"Don't fret, fairy. My brain is fine," I murmur, trying to soothe her. "I got all your questions right."
"You didn't get any of them right, Atlas," Colter says.
"What? Yes, I did."
Her finger doesn't have a ring on it, Bruce Gorden—the league president—is an asshole, and today is the first day of the rest of my life.
Gabbi reaches toward me and then hesitates. "I'm going to check your head, Atlas."
"You know my name."
"Yes." She prods at the back of my head, probing at the knot already forming there. It hurts like a motherfucker.
"How?" I growl. "Son of a bitch, that hurts."
"You need a CT Scan."
"How?"
"At the hospital."
"How do you know my name, baby?"
Her eyes flash as they lock on mine, a little of that same fire from earlier peeping out. "Hollie," she snaps before looking away from me to Coach. "He needs a CT. He may have a concussion."
I don't. I've had more than my fair share over the years. It comes with the territory when you tend goal. This feels nothing like those.
I'm more concerned with why my future wife is pissed that I know our physical therapist. I've barely even spoken to her.
But I don't get the opportunity to ask. Doc Jessup comes running in, and Gabbi quickly steps aside.
My last glimpse of her is of her round ass as she walks away.
Newsflash: it does absolutely nothing to help the pain in my balls.
Chapter Two
Atlas
"Jesus. It's crowded in here tonight."
"You," Colter says, pointing at me, "shouldn't even be here. You have a concussion."
"My brain is fine," I lie. Despite all my claims to the contrary, my brain is not actually fine. I spent half of yesterday undergoing a battery of tests, all of which confirmed Gabbi's suspicions. I have a concussion. It's my second one in less than a year, so they're taking the shit seriously.
I'm riding the bench for the next two weeks. Another concussion and I'm out for the season. It's not a little thing. But I followed the doctor's orders and spent the entire day on the couch, doing nothing.
I was not built for that bullshit.
All I thought about all day was Gabbi and what she said. I still can't figure out what the hell I did to Hollie that pissed Gabbi off. Or how Gabbi even knows Hollie, for that matter. But I'd very much like to know the answers to both of those questions.
"Yeah, his brain is fine," Devlin Ramsey says. "The puck didn't get anywhere near his pinky toe."
I flip him off behind my back as the rest of the team laughs, the assholes. They give me a lot of shit—only a crazy man willingly plays goalie—but they all know I'm a smart motherfucker. I may be feral, but my mama didn't raise no fool.