Page 43 of Pucking Them
“You’re scaring me again.” Shay peers at me over Robyn’s shoulder.
“Good.”
“Now,” Robyn squirms around, until she is facing Shay, “no more dangerous adventures or impulsive escapades.”
“Ehm, have you met me, love?”
Robyn kisses my brother, and it focuses him on her words like nothing else can. “Tomorrow is the first game against the Pittsburgh Penguins. They’re a tough team, who may be out for revenge after what happened with their captain, Wilder. These next few weeks will be high pressure. But I believe in you. It’s our best opportunity but also our greatest challenge.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rebel Arena, Freedom
Robyn
“Keep calm,”I whisper, as much to the men on the ice as to myself. “Don’t fucking freak out.”
My eyes burn with tears. I struggle not to let them fall. I can’t allow them to.
My skin crawls with the sensation of the press’ cameras focused on me.
It’s the opening home game of the Conference Finals against the Pittsburgh Penguins, but I’m not filled with excitement, only dread.
How has this happened?
I wring my hands together in my warm gloves as I pace by the side of the rink.
I try to ignore the roar of the crowd, chatter of the commentator, and the bite of cold air that is mixed with sweat and rubber.
I pull my long, woolen coat around my emerald dress, glad for the scarf that Eden wound around my neck before I left for the game.
It’s one of Eden’s gray scarves. The one that I always steal for games; it’s become my own sport superstition. I turn my head to take a deep, sniff of Eden’s sweet, vanilla scent to comfort myself.
The crowd should be buzzing. But instead, there is an unsettled air. Every time a certain player receives the puck or shoots at goal, the home crowd chants:Shame, shame, shame.
I’m proud of them for their solidarity against that player:Wilder.
The liar, bully, cheat.
My stalker ex-husband.
Also, the captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins who is meant to be suspended under investigation for serious charges.
Instead, he’s on the ice.
This is a fucking disaster.
I stumbled in shock, when I first walked hand in hand with Eden past the metal benches toward the rink and saw Wilder doing warmups on the ice.
I paled.
My breathing became erratic. My brain froze.
Wilder looked like a Viking.
He was a mountain of a man with champagne blond hair that fell to his shoulders, which he has always been even more vain about than his beard that he groomed for hours.
“What in the fucking hell is that asshole doing here?” I hissed.
